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0? 


THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED 


The  Light  that  Failed 


By  Rudyard  Kipling 


PUBLISHED  BY 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

FOR 

REVIEW  OF  REVIEWS  CO. 


Revised,  April,  i8gg. 

Copyright,  1899, 
By  RUDYARD  KIPLING 


DEDICATION 

If  I  were  hanged  on  the  highest  hill, 
Mother  o'  mine,  0  mother  o'  mine  ! 

I  know  whose  love  would  follow  me  still, 
Motlier  o'  mine,  0  motlier  o'  wme  / 

If  I  were  dro\\'ned  in  the  deepest  sea, 
Mother  o '  mine,  O  mother  o '  mine  1 

I  know  whose  tears  would  come  down  to  me. 
Mother  o '  mine,  0  mother  o'  mine  ! 

If  I  were  damned  of  body  and  soul, 
I  know  whose  prayers  would  make  me  whole, 
Mothtr  o'  viijie,  0  mother  o'  mine  ! 


PREFACE 

This   is   the   story  of   The  Light   that  Failed   as    it    was 
originally  conceived  by  the  writer. 

RUDYARD  KIPLING. 


THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED 


CHAPTER  I 

So  we  settled  it  all  when  the  storm  was  done 

As  comf'y  as  comf 'y  could  be; 
And  I  was  to  wait  in  the  barn,  my  dears. 

Because  I  was  only  three, 
And  Teddy  would  run  to  the  rainbow's  foot, 

Because  he  was  five  and  a  man; 
And  that's  how  it  all  began,  my  dears. 

And  that's  how  it  all  began. — Big  Barn  Stories. 

'What  do  you  think  she'd  do  if  she  caught  us?  We 
oughtn't  to  have  it,  you  know,'  said  Maisie. 

'Beat  me,  and  lock  you  up  in  your  bedroom,'  Dick 
answered,  without  hesitation.  'Have  you  got  the  car- 
tridges? ' 

'Yes;  they're  in  my  pocket,  but  they  are  joggling 
horribly.  Do  pin-fire  cartridges  go  off  of  their  own 
accord? ' 

'Don't  know.  Take  the  revolver,  if  you  are  afraid,  and 
let  me  carry  them.' 

'  I'm  not  afraid.'  Maisie  strode  forward  swiftly,  a  hand 
in  her  pocket  and  her  chin  in  the  air.  Dick  followed  ^vith 
a  small  pin-fire  revolver. 

The  children  had  discovered  that  their  lives  would  be 
unendurable  without  pistol-practice.     After  much  fore- 

3 


4  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  chap. 

thought  and  self-denial,  Dick  had  saved  seven  shillings 
and  sixpence,  the  price  of  a  badly  constructed  Belgian 
revolver.  Maisie  could  only  contribute  half  a  crown  to 
the  syndicate  for  the  purchase  of  a  hundred  cartridges. 
'You  can  save  better  than  I  can,  Dick,'  she  explained;  ^I 
like  nice  things  to  eat,  and  it  doesn't  matter  to  you. 
Besides,  boys  ought  to  do  these  things.' 

Dick  grumbled  a  little  at  the  arrangement,  but  went 
oat  and  made  the  purchases,  which  the  children  were  then 
on  their  way  to  test.  Revolvers  did  not  lie  in  the  scheme 
of  their  daily  hfe  as  decreed  for  them  by  the  guardian  who 
was  incorrectly  supposed  to  stand  in  the  place  of  a  mother 
to  these  two  orphans.  Dick  had  been  under  her  care  for 
six  years,  during  which  time  she  had  made  her  profit  of  the 
allowances  supposed  to  be  expended  on  his  clothes,  and, 
partly  through  thoughtlessness,  partly  through  a  natural 
desire  to  pain, — she  was  a  widow  of  some  years  anxious  to 
marry  again, — had  made  his  days  burdensome  on  his 
young  shoulders.  Where  he  had  looked  for  love,  she 
gave  him  first  aversion  and  then  hate.  Where  he  growing 
older  had  sought  a  little  sympathy,  she  gave  him  ridicule. 
The  many  hours  that  she  could  spare  from  the  ordering 
of  her  small  house  she  devoted  to  what  she  caUed  the 
home-traim'ng  of  Dick  Heldar.  Her  religion,  manufac- 
tured in  the  main  by  her  own  intelligence  and  a  keen  study 
of  the  Scriptures,  was  an  aid  to  her  in  this  matter.  At 
such  times  as  she  herself  was  not  personally  displeased 
with  Dick,  she  left  him  to  understand  that  he  had  a  heavy 
account  to  settle  with  his  Creator;  wherefore  Dick  learned 


I  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  5 

to  loathe  his  God  as  intensely  as  he  loathed  Mrs.  Jennett; 
and  this  is  not  a  wholesome  frame  of  mind  for  the  young. 
Since  she  choose  to  regard  him  as  a  hopeless  liar,  when 
dread  of  pain  drove  him  to  his  first  untruth  he  naturally 
developed  into  a  har,  but  an  economical  and  self-con- 
tained one,  never  throwing  away  the  least  unnecessary  fib, 
and  never  hesitating  at  the  blackest,  were  it  only  plausible, 
that  might  make  his  life  a  little  easier.  The  treatment 
taught  him  at  least  the  power  of  hving  alone, — a  power 
that  was  of  service  to  him  when  he  went  to  a  public  school 
and  the  boys  laughed  at  his  clothes,  which  were  poor  in 
quality  and  mucli  mended.  In  the  holidays  he  returned 
to  the  teachings  of  Mrs.  Jennett,  and,  that  the  chain 
of  discipline  might  not  be  weakened  by  association  with 
the  world,  was  generally  beaten,  on  one  count  or 
another,  before  he  had  been  twelve  hours  under  her 
roof. 

The  autumn  of  one  year  brought  him  a  companion  in 
bondage,  a  long-haired,  gray-eyed  Httle  atom,  as  self-con- 
tained as  himself,  who  moved  about  the  house  silently  and 
for  the  first  few  weeks  spoke  only  to  the  goat  that  was  her 
chief  est  friend  on  earth  and  lived  in  the  back-garden .  Mrs. 
Jennett  objected  to  the  goat  on  the  grounds  that  he  was 
un-Christian, — which  he  certainly  was.  'Then,'  said  the 
atom,  choosing  her  words  very  deliberately,  '  I  shall  write 
to  my  lawyer-peoples  and  tell  them  that  you  are  a  very 
bad  woman.  Amomma  is  mine,  mine,  mine!'  Mrs. 
Jennett  made  a  movement  to  the  hall,  where  certain 
umbrellas  and  canes  stood  in  a  rack.  The  atom  understood 


6  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAH^ED  chap. 

as  clearly  as  Dick  what  this  meant.  '  I  have  been  beaten 
before,'  she  said,  still  in  the  same  passionless  voice;  'I 
have  been  beaten  worse  that  you  can  ever  beat  me.  If 
you  beat  me  I  shall  write  to  my  lawyer-peoples  and  tell 
them  that  you  do  not  give  me  enough  to  eat.  I  am  not 
afraid  of  you.'  Mrs.  Jennett  did  not  go  into  the  hall,  and 
the  atom,  after  a  pause  to  assure  herself  that  all  danger  of 
war  was  past,  went  out,  to  weep  bitterly  on  Amomma's 
neck. 

Dick  learned  to  know  her  as  Maisie,  and  at  first  mis- 
trusted her  profoundly,  for  he  feared  that  she  might  inter- 
fere with  the  small  liberty  of  action  left  to  him.  She  did 
not,  however;  and  she  volunteered  no  friendliness  until 
Dick  had  taken  the  first  steps.  Long  before  the  hoKdays 
were  over,  the  stress  of  punishment  shared  in  common 
drove  the  children  together,  if  it  were  only  to  play  into 
each  other's  hands  as  they  prepared  lies  for  Mrs.  Jennett's 
use.  When  Dick  returned  to  school,  Maisie  whispered, 
'Now  I  shall  be  all  alone  to  take  care  of  myself;  but,'  and 
she  nodded  her  head  bravely,  '  I  can  do  it.  You  promised 
to  send  Amomma  a  grass  collar.  Send  it  soon.'  A  week 
later  she  asked  for  that  collar  by  return  of  post,  and  was 
not  pleased  when  she  learned  that  it  took  time  to  make. 
When  at  last  Dick  forwarded  the  gift,  she  forgot  to  thank 
him  for  it. 

Many  holidays  had  come  and  gone  since  that  day,  and 
Dick  had  grown  into  a  lanky  hobbledehoy  more  than  ever 
conscious  of  his  bad  clothes.  Not  for  a  moment  had  Mrs. 
Jennett  relaxed  her  tender  care  of  him,  but  the  average 


I  THE  LIGHT  THAT  PAUSED  7 

canings  of  a  public  school — Dick  fell  under  punishment 
about  three  times  a  month — filled  him  with  contempt  for 
her  powers,  'She  doesn't  hurt,'  he  explained  to  Maisie, 
who  urged  him  to  rebellion,  'and  she  is  kinder  to  you 
after  she  has  whacked  me.'  Dick  shambled  through  the 
days  unkempt  in  body  and  savage  in  soul,  as  the  smaller 
boys  of  the  school  learned  to  know,  for  when  the  spirit 
moved  him  he  would  hit  them,  cunningly  and  with  science. 
The  same  spirit  made  him  more  than  once  try  to  tease 
Maisie,  but  the  girl  refused  to  be  made  unhappy.  'We 
are  both  miserable  as  it  is,'  said  she.  'What  is  the  use  of 
trying  to  make  things  worse?  Let's  find  things  to  do,  and 
forget  things.' 

The  pistol  was  the  outcome  of  that  search.  It  could 
only  be  used  on  the  muddiest  foreshore  of  the  beach,  far 
away  from  bathing-machines  and  pier-heads,  below  the 
grassy  slopes  of  Fort  Keeling.  The  tide  ran  out  nearly 
two  miles  on  that  coast,  and  the  many-coloured  mud- 
banks,  touched  by  the  sun,  sent  up  a  lamentable  smell  of 
dead  weed.  It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  when  Dick  and 
Maisie  arrived  on  their  ground,  Amomma  trotting  pa- 
tiently behind  them. 

'Mf!'  said  Maisie,  sniffing  the  air.  'I  wonder  what 
makes  the  sea  so  smelly?     I  don't  like  it.' 

'You  never  Uke  any  tiling  that  isn't  made  just  for  you,' 
said  Dick  bluntly.  'Give  me  the  cartridges,  and  I'll  try 
first  shot.  How  far  does  one  of  these  Httle  revolvers 
carry? ' 

'Oh,  half  a  mile,'  said  Maisie,  promptly.     'At  least  it 


8  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  chap. 

makes  an  awful  noise.  Be  careful  with  the  cartridges;  I 
don't  like  those  jagged  stick-up  things  on  the  rim.  Dick, 
do  be  careful.' 

'All  right.  I  know  how  to  load.  I'll  fire  at  the  break- 
water out  there.' 

He  fired,  and  Amomma  ran  away  bleating.  The  bullet 
threw  up  a  spurt  of  mud  to  the  right  of  the  weed-wreathed 
piles. 

'Throws  high  and  to  the  right.  You  try,  Maisie. 
Mind,  it's  loaded  all  round.' 

Maisie  took  the  pistol  and  stepped  delicately  to  the 
verge  of  the  mud,  her  hand  firmly  closed  on  the  butt,  her 
mouth  and  left  eye  screwed  up.  Dick  sat  down  on  a  tuft 
of  bank  and  laughed.  Amomma  returned  very  cautiously. 
He  was  accustomed  to  strange  experiences  in  his  afternoon 
walks,  and,  finding  the  cartridge-box  unguarded,  made  in- 
vestigations with  his  nose.  Maisie  fired,  but  could  not 
see  where  the  bullet  went. 

'I  think  it  hit  the  post,'  she  said,  shading  her  eyes  and 
looking  out  across  the  sailless  sea. 

'  I  know  it  has  gone  out  to  the  Marazion  Bell-buoy,'  said 
Dick,  with  a  chuckle.  'Fire  low  and  to  the  left;  then 
perhaps  you'll  get  it.  Oh,  look  at  Amomma ! — he's  eating 
the  cartridges!' 

Maisie  turned,  the  revolver  in  her  hand,  just  in  time  to 
see  Amomma  scampering  away  from  the  pebbles  Dick 
threw  after  him.  Nothing  is  sacred  to  a  billy  goat. 
Being  well  fed  and  the  adored  of  his  mistress,  Amomma 
had  naturally  swallowed  two  loaded  pin-fire  cartridges. 


I  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAH^ED  9 

Maisie  hurried  up  to  assure  herself  that  Dick  had  not  mis- 
counted the  tale. 

'Yes,  he's  eaten  two.' 

'Horrid  httle  beast!  Then  they'll  joggle  about  inside 
him  and  blow  up,  and  serve  him  right.  .  .  .  Oh, 
Dick!  have  I  killed  you? ' 

Revolvers  are  tricky  things  for  young  hands  to  deal 
with.  Maisie  could  not  explain  how  it  had  happened,  but 
a  veil  of  reeking  smoke  separated  her  from  Dick,  and  she 
was  quite  certain  that  the  pistol  had  gone  off  in  his  face. 
Then  she  heard  him  sputter,  and  dropped  on  her  knees 
beside  him  crying,  'Dick,  you  aren't  hurt,  are  you?  I 
didn't  mean  it.' 

'Of  course  you  didn't,'  said  Dick,  coming  out  of  the 
smoke  and  wiping  his  cheek.  '  But  you  nearly  blinded  me. 
That  powder  stuff  stings  awfully.'  A  neat  Httle  splash  of 
gray  lead  on  a  stone  showed  where  the  bullet  had  gone. 
Maisie  began  to  whimper. 

'Don't,'  said  Dick,  jumping  to  his  feet  and  shaking 
himself.     'I'm  not  a  bit  hurt.' 

'No,  but  I  might  have  killed  you,'  protested  Maisie,  the 
corners  of  her  mouth  drooping.  '  What  should  I  have  done 
then?' 

'Gone  home  and  told  Mrs.  Jennett.'  Dick  grinned  at 
the  thought ;  then,  softening,  '  Please  don't  worry  about  it. 
Besides,  we  are  wasting  time.  We've  got  to  get  back  to 
tea.    I'll  take  the  revolver  for  a  bit.' 

Maisie  would  have  wept  on  the  least  encouragement, 
but  Dick's  indifference,  albeit  his  hand  was  shaking  as  he 


lo  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAttED  chap. 

picked  up  the  pistol,  restrained  her.  She  lay  panting  on 
the  beach  while  Dick  methodically  bombarded  the  break- 
water. 'Got  it  at  last"'  he  exclaimed,  as  a  lock  of  weed 
flew  from  the  wood. 

'Let  me  try,'  said  Maisie,  imperiously.  'I'm  all  right 
now.' 

They  fired  In  turns  till  the  rickety  little  revolver  nearly 
shook  itself  to  pieces,  and  Amomma  the  outcast — because 
he  might  blow  up  at  any  moment — browsed  in  the  back- 
ground and  wondered  why  stones  were  thrown  at  him. 
Then  they  found  a  balk  of  timber  floating  in  a  pool  which 
was  commanded  by  the  seaward  slope  of  Fort  Keeling, 
and  they  sat  down  together  before  this  new  target. 

'Next  hohdays,'  said  Dick,  as  the  now  thoroughly 
fouled  revolver  kicked  wildly  in  his  hand,  'we'll  get  an- 
other pistol, — central  fire, — that  will  carry  farther.' 

'There  won't  be  any  next  hoHdays  for  me,'  said  Maisie. 
'I'm  going  away.' 

'Whereto?' 

'I  don't  know.  My  lawyers  have  written  to  Mrs. 
Jennett,  and  I've  got  to  be  educated  somewhere, — in 
France,  perhaps, — I  don't  know  where;  but  I  shall  be  glad 
to  go  away.' 

'  I  shan't  like  it  a  bit.  I  suppose  I  shall  be  left.  Look 
here,  Maisie,  is  it  really  true  you're  going?  Then  these 
holidays  will  be  the  last  I  shall  see  anything  of  you;  and 
I  go  back  to  school  next  week.     I  wish ' 

The  young  blood  turned  his  cheeks  scarlet.  Maisie 
was  picking  grass-tufts  and  throwing  them  down  the  slope 


I  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAH^ED  ii 

at  a  yellow  sea-poppy  nodding  all  by  itself  to  the  illimit- 
able levels  of  the  mud-fiats  and  the  milk-white  sea  beyond. 

'I  wish,'  she  said,  after  a  pause,  'that  I  could  see  you 
again  sometime.     You  wish  that,  too?' 

*Yes,  but  it  would  have  been  better  if — if — you  had — 
shot  straight  over  there — down  by  the  breakwater.' 

Maisie  looked  with  large  eyes  for  a  moment.  And  this 
was  the  boy  who  only  ten  days  before  had  decorated 
Amomma's  horns  with  cut-paper  ham-frills  and  turned 
him  out,  a  bearded  derision,  among  the  public  ways! 
Then  she  dropped  her  eyes :  this  was  not  the  boy. 

'Don't  be  stupid,'  she  said  reprovingly,  and  with  swift 
instinct  attacked  the  side-issue.  'How  selfish  you  are! 
Just  think  what  I  should  have  felt  if  that  horrid  thing 
had  killed  you!     I'm  quite  miserable  enough  already,' 

'Why?  Because  you're  going  away  from  Mrs.  Jen- 
nett?' 

'No.' 

'From  me,  then?' 

No  answer  for  a  long  time.  Dick  dared  not  look  at  her. 
He  felt,  though  he  did  not  know,  all  that  the  past  four 
years  had  been  to  him,  and  tliis  the  more  acutely  since  he 
had  no  knowledge  to  put  his  feelings  in  words. 

'I  don't  know,'  she  said.     'I  suppose  it  is.' 

'Maisie,  you  must  know.     Vm  not  supposing.' 

'Let's  go  home,'  said  Maisie,  weakly. 

But  Dick  was  not  minded  to  retreat. 

'I  can't  say  things,'  he  pleaded,  'and  I'm  awfully  sorry 
for  teasing  you  about  Amomma  the  other  day.     It's  aU 


12  THE  LIGHT  THx\T  FAH^ED 


CH.\P. 


different  now,  Maisie,  can't  you  see?  And  you  might 
have  told  me  that  you  were  going,  instead  of  leaving  me  to 
find  out.' 

'You  didn't.  I  did  tell.  Oh,  Dick,  what's  the  use  of 
worrying? ' 

'There  isn't  any;  but  we've  been  together  years  and 
years,  and  I  didn't  know  how  much  I  cared.' 

'  I  don't  beheve  you  ever  did  care.' 

'No,  I  didn't;  but  I  do, — I  care  awfully  now,  Maisie,' 
he  gulped, — 'Maisie,  darUng,  say  you  care  too,  please.' 

'I  do,  indeed  I  do;  but  it  won't  be  any  use.' 

'Why?' 

'Because  I  am  going  away.' 

'Yes,  but  if  you  promise  before  you  go.  Only  say — 
will  you?'  A  second  'darhng'  came  to  his  Hps  more 
easily  than  the  first.  There  were  few  endearments  in 
Dick's  home  or  school  life;  he  had  to  find  them  bv  instinct. 
Dick  caught  the  little  hand  blackened  with  the  escaped 
gas  of  the  revolver. 

'I  promise,'  she  said  solemnly;  'but  if  I  care  there  is  no 
need  for  promising.' 

'And  you  do  care?'  For  the  first  time  in  the  past  few 
minutes  their  eyes  met  and  spoke  for  them  who  had  no 
skill  in  speech.     .     .     . 

'Oh,  Dick,  don't!  Please  don't!  It  was  all  right 
when  we  said  good-morning;  but  now  it's  all  different!' 
Amomma  looked  on  from  afar.  He  had  seen  his  property 
quarrel  frequently,  but  he  had  never  seen  kisses  ex- 
changed before.     The  yellow  sea-poppy  was  wiser,  and 


I  THE  LIGHT  TH.\T  FAH^ED  13 

nodded  its  head  approvingly.  Considered  as  a  kiss,  that 
was  a  failure,  but  since  it  was  the  first,  other  than  those 
demanded  by  duty,  in  all  the  world  that  either  had  ever 
given  or  taken,  it  opened  to  them  new  worlds,  and  every 
one  of  them  glorious,  so  that  they  v/ere  lifted  above  the 
consideration  of  any  worlds  at  all,  especially  those  in 
which  tea  is  necessary,  and  sat  still,  holding  each  other's 
hands  and  sa>ing  not  a  word. 

'You  can't  forget  nov/,'  said  Dick,  at  last.  There  was 
that  on  his  cheek  that  stung  more  than  gun-powder. 

'I  shouldn't  have  forgotten  anyhow,'  said  Maisie,  and 
they  looked  at  each  other  and  saw  that  each  was  changed 
from  the  companion  of  an  hour  ago  to  a  wonder  and  a 
mystery  they  could  not  understand.  The  sun  began  to 
set,  and  a  night-wind  thrashed  along  the  bents  of  the  fore- 
shore. 

'We  shall  be  awfully  late  for  tea,'  said  Maisie.  'Let's 
go  home.' 

'Let's  use  the  rest  of  the  cartridges  first,'  said  Dick;  and 
he  helped  Maisie  down  the  slope  of  the  fort  to  the  sea, — a 
descent  that  she  was  quite  capable  of  covering  at  full 
speed.  Equally  gravely  Maisie  took  the  grimy  hand. 
Dick  bent  forward  clumsily;  Maisie  drew  the  hand 
away,  and  Dick  blushed. 

'It's  very  pretty,'  he  said. 

'Pooh!'  said  Maisie,  with  a  little  laugh  of  gratified 
vanity.  She  stood  close  to  Dick  as  he  loaded  the  revolver 
for  the  last  time  and  fired  over  the  sea  with  a  vague  notion 
at  the  back  of  his  head  that  he  was  protecting  Maisie  from 


14  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  chap. 

all  the  evils  in  the  world.  A  puddle  far  across  the  mud 
caught  the  last  rays  of  the  sun  and  turned  into  a  wrathful 
red  disc.  The  light  held  Dick's  attention  for  a  moment, 
and  as  he  raised  his  revolver  there  fell  upon  him  a  renewed 
sense  of  the  miraculous,  in  that  he  was  standing  by  Maisie 
who  had  promised  to  care  for  him  for  an  indefinite  length 

of  time  till  such  date  as A  gust  of  the  growing  wind 

drove  the  girl's  long  black  hair  across  his  face  as  she  stood 
with  her  hand  on  his  shoulder  calling  Amomma  *a  little 
beast,'  and  for  a  moment  he  was  in  the  dark, — a  darkness 
that  stung.  The  bullet  went  singing  out  to  the  empty 
sea. 

'Spoilt  my  aim,'  said  he,  shaking  his  head.  'There 
aren't  any  more  cartridges;  we  shall  have  to  run  home.' 
But  they  did  not  run.  They  walked  very  slowly,  arm  in 
arm.  And  it  was  a  matter  of  indifference  to  them  whether 
the  neglected  Amomma  with  two  pin-fire  cartridges  in  his 
inside  blew  up  or  trotted  beside  them;  for  they  had  come 
into  a  golden  heritage  and  were  disposing  of  it  with  all  the 
wisdom  of  all  their  years. 

'And  I  shall  be '  quoth  Dick,  valiantly.     Then  he 

checked  himself :  '  I  don't  know  what  I  shall  be.  I  don't 
seem  to  be  able  to  pass  any  exams.,  but  I  can  make  awful 
caricatures  of  the  masters.     Ho!  ho!' 

'Be  an  artist,  then,'  said  Maisie.  '  You're  always  laugh- 
ing at  my  trying  to  draw;  and  it  will  do  you  good.' 

'  I'll  never  laugh  at  anything  you  do,'  he  answered.  '  I'll 
be  an  artist,  and  I'll  do  things.' 

'Artists  always  want  money,  don't  they?' 


I  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  15 

'I've  got  a  hundred  and  twenty  pounds  a  year  of  my 
own.  My  guardians  tell  me  I'm  to  have  it  when  I  come 
of  age.    That  will  be  enough  to  begin  with.' 

'Ah,  I'm  rich,'  said  Maisie.  'I've  got  three  hundred  a 
year  all  my  own  when  I'm  twenty-one.  That's  why  Mrs. 
Jennett  is  kinder  to  me  than  she  is  to  you.  I  wish,  though, 
that  I  had  somebody  that  belonged  to  me, — just  a  father 
or  a  mother.' 

'You  belong  to  me,'  said  Dick,  'for  ever  and  ever.' 

'Yes,  we  belong — for  ever.  It's  very  nice.'  She 
squeezed  his  arm.  The  kindly  darkness  hid  them  both, 
and,  emboldened  because  he  could  only  just  see  the  profile 
of  Maisie's  cheek  with  the  long  lashes  veihng  the  gray 
eyes,  Dick  at  the  front  door  delivered  himself  of  the  words 
he  had  been  boggling  over  for  the  last  two  hours. 

'And  I — love  you,  Maisie,'  he  said,  in  a  whisper  that 
seemed  to  him  to  ring  across  the  world, — the  world  that  he 
would  to-morrow  or  the  next  day  set  out  to  conquer. 

There  was  a  scene,  not,  for  the  sake  of  disciphne,  to  be 
reported,  when  Mrs.  Jennett  would  have  fallen  upon  him, 
first  for  disgraceful  unpunctuality,  and  secondly  for 
nearly  kilUng  himself  with  a  forbidden  weapon. 

'I  was  playing  with  it,  and  it  went  off  by  itself,'  said 
Dick,  when  the  powder-pocked  cheek  could  no  longer  be 
hidden,  'but  if  you  think  you're  going  to  Uck  me  you're 
wrong.  You  are  never  going  to  touch  me  again.  Sit 
down  and  give  me  my  tea.  You  can't  cheat  us  out  of 
that,  anyhow.' 

Mrs.  Jennett  gasped  and  became  livid.     Maisie  said 


i6  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  chap,  i 

nothing,  but  encouraged  Dick  with  her  eyes,  and  he  be- 
haved abominably  all  that  evening.  Mrs.  Jennett  prophe- 
sied an  immediate  judgment  of  Providence  and  a  descent 
into  Tophet  later,  but  Dick  walked  in  Paradise  and  would 
not  hear.  Only  when  he  was  going  to  bed  Mrs.  Jennett 
recovered  and  asserted  herself.  He  had  bidden  Maisie 
good-night  with  down-drooped  eyes  and  from  a  distance. 

*lf  you  aren't  a  gentleman  you  might  try  to  behave  like 
one,'  said  Mrs.  Jennett,  spitefully.  'You've  been  quar- 
relling with  Maisie  again.' 

This  meant  that  the  usual  good-night  kiss  had  been 
omitted.  Maisie,  white  to  the  lips,  thrust  her  cheek  for- 
ward with  a  fine  air  of  indifference,  and  was  duly  pecked 
by  Dick,  who  tramped  out  of  the  room  red  as  fire.  That 
night  he  dreamed  a  wild  dream.  He  had  won  all  the 
world  and  brought  it  to  Maisie  in  a  cartridge-box,  but  she 
turned  it  over  with  her  foot,  and,  instead  of  saying  'Thank 
you,'  cried — 

'  Where  is  the  grass  collar  you  promised  for  Amomma? 
Oh,  how  selfish  you  are ! ' 


CHAPTER  II 

Then  we  brought  the  lances  down,  then  the  bugles  blew, 
When  we  went  to  Kandahar,  ridin'  two  an'  two, 
Ridin',  ridin',  ridin',  two  an'  two, 
Ta-ra-ra-ra-ra-ra-ra, 
All  the  way  to  Kandahar,  ridin'  two  an'  two. 

— Barrack-Room  Ballad. 

'I'm  not  angry  with  the  British  public,  but  I  wish  we  had 
a  few  thousand  of  them  scattered  among  these  rocks. 
They  wouldn't  be  in  such  a  hurry  to  get  at  their  morning 
papers  then.  Can't  you  imagine  the  regulation  house- 
holder— Lover  of  Justice,  Constant  Reader,  PaterfamiHas, 
and  all  that  lot — frizzhng  on  hot  gravel? ' 

'With  a  blue  veil  over  his  head,  and  his  clothes  in  strips. 
Has  any  man  here  a  needle?  I've  got  a  piece  of  sugar- 
sack.' 

*  I'll  lend  you  a  packing-needle  for  six  square  inches  of  it 
then.     Both  my  knees  are  worn  through.' 

'Why  not  six  square  acres,  while  you're  about  it?  But 
lend  me  the  needle,  and  I'll  see  what  I  can  do  with  the 
selvage.  I  don't  think  there's  enough  to  protect  my 
royal  body  from  the  cold  blast  as  it  is.  What  are  you 
doing  with  that  everlasting  sketch-book  of  yours,  Dick?  ' 

'Study  of  our  Special   Correspondent  repairing  his 

17 


1 8  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  chap. 

wardrobe/  said  Dick,  gravely,  as  the  other  man  kicked  off 
a  pair  of  sorely  worn  riding-breeches  and  began  to  fit  a 
square  of  coarse  canvas  over  the  most  obvious  open  space. 
He  grunted  disconsolately  as  the  vastness  of  the  void 
developed  itself. 

'Sugar-bags,  indeed!  Hi!  you  pilot  man  there!  lend 
me  all  the  sails  of  that  whale-boat.' 

A  fez-crowned  head  bobbed  up  in  the  stern-sheets, 
divided  itself  into  exact  halves  with  one  flashing  grin,  and 
bobbed  down  again.  The  man  of  the  tattered  breeches, 
clad  only  in  a  Norfolk  jacket  and  a  gray  flannel  shirt,  went 
on  with  his  clumsy  sewing,  while  Dick  chuckled  over  the 
sketch. 

Some  twenty  whale-boats  were  nuzzling  a  sand-bank 
which  was  dotted  with  English  soldiery  of  half  a  dozen 
corps,  bathing  or  washing  their  clothes.  A  heap  of  boat- 
rollers,  commissariat-boxes,  sugar-bags,  and  flour-  and 
small-arm-ammunition-cases  showed  where  one  of  the 
whale-boats  had  been  compelled  to  unload  hastily;  and  a 
regimental  carpenter  was  swearing  aloud  as  he  tried,  on  a 
wholly  insufficient  allowance  of  white  lead,  to  plaster  up 
the  sun-parched  gaping  seams  of  the  boat  herself. 

'First  the  bloomin'  rudder  snaps,'  said  he  to  the  world 
in  general;  'then  the  mast  goes;  an'  then,  s"elp  me,  when 
she  can't  do  nothin'  else,  she  opens  'erself  out  like  a  cock- 
eyed Chinese  lotus.' 

'Exactly  the  case  with  my  breeches,  whoever  you  are,' 
said  the  tailor,  without  looking  up.  'Dick,  I  wonder 
when  I  shall  see  a  decent  shop  again.' 


n  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  19 

There  was  no  answer,  save  the  incessant  angry  murmur 
of  the  Nile  as  it  raced  round  a  basalt-walled  bend  and 
foamed  across  a  rock-bridge  half  a  mile  upstream.  It 
was  as  though  the  brown  weight  of  ther  iver  would  drive 
the  white  men  back  to  their  own  country.  The  inde- 
scribable scent  of  Nile  mud  in  the  air  told  that  the  stream 
was  falling  and  that  the  next  few  miles  would  be  no  light 
thing  for  the  whale-boats  to  overpass.  The  desert  ran 
down  almost  to  the  banks,  where,  among  gray,  red,  and 
black  hillocks,  a  camel-corps  was  encamped.  No  man 
dared  even  for  a  day  lose  touch  of  the  slow-moving  boats  ; 
there  had  been  no  fighting  for  weeks  past,  and  throughout 
all  that  time  the  Nile  had  never  spared  them.  Rapid  had 
followed  rapid,  rock  rock,  and  island-group  island-group, 
till  the  rank  and  file  had  longs  ince  lost  all  count  of  di- 
rection and  very  nearly  of  time.  They  were  moving  some- 
where, they  did  not  know  why,  to  do  something,  they  did 
not  know  what.  Before  them  lay  the  Nile,  and  at  the 
other  end  of  it  was  one  Gordon,  fighting  for  the  dear  life, 
in  a  town  called  Khartoum.  There  were  columns  of 
British  troops  in  the  desert,  or  in  one  of  the  many  deserts; 
there  were  columns  on  the  river;  there  were  yet  more 
columns  waiting  to  embark  on  the  river;  there  were  fresh 
drafts  waiting  at  Assioot  and  Assuan ;  there  were  Ues  and 
rumours  running  over  the  face  of  the  hopeless  land  from 
Suakin  to  the  Sixth  Cataract,  and  men  supposed  generally 
that  there  must  be  some  one  in  authority  to  direct  the 
general  scheme  of  the  many  movements.  The  duty  of  that 
particular  river-column  was  to  keep   the  whale-boats 


20  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  chap. 

afloat  in  the  water,  to  avoid  trampling  on  the  villagers' 
crops  when  the  gangs  'tracked'  the  boats  with  hnes 
thrown  from  midstream,  to  get  as  much  sleep  and  food  as 
was  possible,  and,  above  all,  to  press  on  without  delay  in 
the  teeth  of  the  churning  Nile. 

With  the  soldiers  sweated  and  toiled  the  correspondents 
of  the  newspapers,  and  they  were  almost  as  ignorant  as 
their  companions.  But  it  was  above  all  things  necessary 
that  England  at  breakfast  should  be  amused  and  thrilled 
and  interested,  whether  Gordon  Hved  or  died,  or  half  the 
British  army  went  to  pieces  in  the  sands.  The  Soudan 
campaign  was  a  picturesque  one,  and  lent  itself  to  vivid 
word-painting.  Now  and  again  a  'Special'  managed  to 
get  slain, — which  was  not  altogether  a  disadvantage  to 
the  paper  that  employed  liim, — and  more  often  the  hand- 
to-hand  nature  of  the  fighting  allowed  of  miraculous 
escapes  wliich  were  worth  telegraphing  home  at  eighteen- 
pence  the  word.  There  were  many  correspondents  with 
many  corps  and  columns, — from  the  veterans  who  had 
followed  on  the  heels  of  the  cavalry  that  occupied  Cairo  in 
'82,  what  time  Arabi  Pasha  called  himself  king,  who  had 
seen  the  first  miserable  work  round  Suakin  when  the 
sentries  were  cut  up  nightly  and  the  scrub  swarmed  with 
spears,  to  youngsters  jerked  into  the  business  at  the  end 
of  a  telegraph-wire  to  take  the  place  of  their  betters  killed 
or  invahded. 

Among  the  seniors — those  who  knew  every  shift  and 
change  in  the  perplexing  postal  arrangements,  the  value 
of  the  seediest,  weediest  Egyptian  garron  offered  for  sale 


n  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAH^ED  21 

in  Cairo  or  Alexandria,  who  could  talk  a  telegraph-clerk 
into  amiability  and  soothe  the  ruffled  vanity  of  a  newly 
appointed  staff-officer  when  press  regulations  became 
burdensome — was  the  man  in  the  flannel  shirt,  the  black- 
brov/ed  Torpenhow.  He  represented  the  Central  Southern 
Syndicate  in  the  campaign,  as  he  had  represented  it  in  the 
Egj'ptian  war,  and  elsewhere.  The  syndicate  did  not 
concern  itself  greatly  wdth  criticisms  of  attack  and  the 
like.  It  suppKed  the  masses,  and  all  it  demanded  was 
picturesqueness  and  abundance  of  detail;  for  there  is  more 
joy  in  England  over  a  soldier  who  insubordinately  steps 
out  of  square  to  rescue  a  comrade  than  over  twenty 
generals  slaving  even  to  baldness  at  the  gross  details  of 
transport  and  commissariat. 

He  had  met  at  Suakin  a  young  man,  sitting  on  the  edge 
of  a  recently  abandoned  redoubt  about  the  size  of  a  hat- 
box,  sketching  a  clum.p  of  shell-torn  bodies  on  the  gravel 
plain. 

'What  are  you  for? '  said  Torpenhow.  The  greeting  of 
the  correspondent  is  that  of  the  commercial  traveller  on 
the  road. 

'My  own  hand,'  said  the  young  man,  without  looking 
up .     '  Have  you  any  tobacco  ? ' 

Torpenhow  waited  till  the  sketch  was  finished,  and 
when  he  had  looked  at  it  said, '  What's  your  business  here?' 

'Nothing;  there  was  a  row,  so  I  came.  I'm  supposed  to 
be  doing  something  down  at  the  painting-slips  among  the 
boats,  or  else  I'm  in  charge  of  the  condenser  on  one  of 
the  water-ships.     I've  forgotten  which.' 


22  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  chap. 

'You've  cheek  enough  to  build  a  redoubt  with,'  said 
Torpenhow,  and  took  stock  of  the  new  acquaintance. 
'Do  you  always  draw  like  that?' 

The  young  man  produced  more  sketches.  'Row  on  a 
Cliinese  pig-boat/  said  he  sententioualy,  showing  them 
one  after  another. — '  Chief  mate  dirked  by  a  comprador. 
— Junk  sunk  ashore  off  Hakodate. — SomaH  camp  at  Ber- 
bera. — Slave-dhow  being  chased  round  Tajurrah  Bay. — 
Soldier  lying  dead  in  the  moonhght  outside  Suakin, — 
throat  cut  by  Fuzzies.' 

'H'm! '  said  Torpenhow,  'can't  say  I  care  f or  Verestcha- 
gin-and-water  myself,  but  there's  no  accounting  for  tastes. 
Doing  anytliing  now,  are  you?' 

'No.     I'm  amusing  myself  here.' 

Torpenhow  looked  at  the  aching  desolation  of  the  place. 
'Faith,  you've  queer  notions  of  amusement.  Got  any 
money? ' 

'  Enough  to  go  on  with.  Look  here :  do  you  want  me  to 
do  war- work?' 

'/  don't.  My  syndicate  may,  though.  You  can  draw 
more  than  a  httle,  and  I  don't  suppose  you  care  much 
what  you  get,  do  you?' 

'Not  tliis  time.     I  want  my  chance  first. ' 

Torpenhow  looked  at  the  sketches  again,  and  nodded. 
'Yes,  you're  right  to  take  your  first  chance  when  you  can 
get  it' 

He  rode  away  s\viftly  through  the  Gate  of  the  Two 
War-Ships,  rattled  across  the  causeway  into  the  town,  and 
wired  to  liis  syndicate,   'Got  man  here,  picture-work. 


n  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAH^ED 


23 


Good  and  cheap.  Shall  I  arrange?  Will  do  letterpress 
with  sketches.' 

The  man  on  the  redoubt  sat  swinging  his  legs  and  mur- 
muring, '  I  knew  the  chance  would  come,  sooner  or  later. 
By  Gad,  they'll  have  to  sweat  for  it  if  I  come  through  this 
business  alive ! ' 

In  the  evem'ng  Torpenhow  was  able  to  announce  to  his 
friend  that  the  Central  Southern  Agency  was  wilUng  to 
take  liim  on  trial,  pa>ing  expenses  for  three  months. 
'And,  by  the  way,  what's  your  name?'  said  Torpenhow. 

'Heldar.     Do  they  give  me  a  free  hand? ' 

'  They've  taken  you  on  chance.  You  must  justify  the 
choice.  You'd  better  stick  to  me.  I'm  going  up-country 
with  a  column,  and  I'll  do  what  I  can  for  you.  Give 
me  some  of  your  sketches  taken  here,  and  I'll  send  'em 
along.'  To  himself  he  said,  'That's  the  best  bargain  the 
Central  Southern  has  ever  made;  and  they  got  me  cheaply 
enough.' 

So  it  came  to  pass  that,  after  some  purchase  of  horse- 
flesh and  arrangements  financial  and  poUtical,  Dick  was 
made  free  of  the  New  and  Honourable  Fraternity  of  war 
correspondents,  who  all  possess  the  inalienable  right  of 
doing  as  much  v/ork  as  they  can  and  getting  as  much  for  it 
as  Providence  and  their  owners  shall  please.  To  these 
things  are  added  in  time,  if  the  brother  be  worthy,  the 
power  of  glib  speech  that  neither  man  nor  woman  can  re- 
sist when  a  meal  or  a  bed  is  in  question,  the  eye  of  a  horse- 
coper,  the  skill  of  a  cook,  the  constitution  of  a  bullock,  the 
digestion  of  an  ostrich,  and  an  infinite  adaptability  to  all 


24  THE  LIGHT  TH.\T  FAILED  chap. 

circumstances.  But  many  die  before  they  attain  to 
this  degree,  and  the  past-masters  in  the  craft  appear  for 
the  most  part  in  dress-clothes  when  they  are  in  England, 
and  thus  their  glory  is  hidden  from  the  multitude. 

Dick  followed  Torpenhow  wherever  the  latter's  fancy 
chose  to  lead  him,  and  between  the  two  they  managed  to 
accompHsh  some  work  that  almost  satisfied  themselves. 
It  was  not  an  easy  life  in  any  v/ay,  and  under  its  influence 
the  two  were  drawn  very  closely  together,  for  they  ate 
from  the  same  dish,  they  shared  the  same  water-bottle, 
and,  most  binding  tie  of  all,  their  mails  went  off  together. 
It  was  Dick  who  managed  to  make  gloriously  drunk  a  tele- 
graph-clerk in  a  palm  hut  far  beyond  the  Second  Cataract, 
and,  while  the  man  lay  in  bliss  on  the  floor,  possessed  him- 
self of  some  laboriously  acquired  exclusive  information, 
forwarded  by  a  confiding  correspondent  of  an  opposition 
syndicate,  made  a  careful  dupHcate  of  the  matter,  and 
brought  the  result  to  Torpenhow,  who  said  that  all  was 
fair  in  love  or  war  correspondence,  and  built  an  excellent 
descriptive  article  from  his  rival's  riotous  waste  of  words. 
It  was  Torpenhow  who — but  the  tale  of  their  adventures, 
together  and  apart,  from  Philse  to  the  waste  wilderness  of 
Herawi  and  Muella,  would  fill  many  books.  They  had 
been  penned  into  a  square  side  by  side,  in  deadly  fear  of 
being  shot  by  over-excited  soldiers;  they  had  fought  with 
baggage-camels  in  the  chill  dawn ;  they  had  jogged  along 
in  silence  under  blinding  sun  on  indefatigable  little 
Eg>Tptian  horses;  and  they  had  floundered  on  the  shallows 
of  the  Nile  when  the  whale-boat  in  which  thev  had  found 


n  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  25 

a  berth  chose  to  hit  a  hidden  rock  and  rip  out  half  her 
bottom-planks. 

Now  they  were  sitting  on  the  sand-bank,  and  the  whale- 
boats  were  bringing  up  the  remainder  of  the  column. 

'Yes,'  said  Torpenhow,  as  he  put  the  last  rude  stitches 
into  his  over-long-neglected  gear,  '  it  has  been  a  beautiful 
business.' 

'The  patch  or  the  campaign?'  said  Dick.  'Don't 
think  much  of  either,  myself.' 

'You  want  the  Euryalus  brought  up  above  the  Third 
Cataract,  don't  you?  and  eighty-one-ton  guns  at  Jakdul? 
Now,  Fm  quite  satisfied  with  my  breeches.'  He  turned 
round  gravely  to  exhibit  himself,  after  the  manner  of  a 
clown. 

'  It's  very  pretty.  Specially  the  lettering  on  the  sack. 
G.  B.  T.  Government  Bullock  Train.  That's  a  sack 
from  India.' 

'  It's  my  initials, — Gilbert  Belling  Torpenhow.  I  stole 
the  cloth  on  purpose.  What  the  mischief  are  the  camel- 
corps  doing  yonder?'  Torpenhow  shaded  his  eyes  and 
looked  across  the  scrub-strewn  gravel. 

A  bugle  blew  furiously,  and  the  men  on  the  bank 
hurried  to  their  arms  and  accoutrements. 

"Tisan  soldiery  surprised  while  bathing,"'  remarked 
Dick,  calmly.  'D'you  remember  the  picture?  It's  by 
Michael  Angelo ;  all  beginners  copy  it.  That  scrub's  alive 
with  enemy.' 

The  camel-corps  on  the  bank  yelled  to  the  infantry  to 
come  to  them,  and  a  hoarse  shouting  down  the  river 


26  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  chap. 

showed  that  the  remainder  of  the  column  had  wind  of  the 
trouble  and  was  hastening  to  take  share  in  it.  As  swiftly 
as  a  reach  of  still  water  is  crisped  by  the  wind,  the  rock- 
strewn  ridges  and  scrub-topped  hills  were  troubled  and 
ahve  with  armed  men.  Mercifully,  it  occurred  to  these 
to  stand  far  off  for  a  time,  to  shout  and  gesticulate 
joyously.  One  man  even  deHvered  himself  of  a  long 
story.  The  camel-corps  did  not  fire.  They  were  only 
too  glad  of  a  little  breathing-space,  until  some  sort  of 
square  could  be  formed.  The  men  on  the  sand-bank  ran 
to  their  side ;  and  the  whale-boats,  as  they  toiled  up  within 
shouting  distance,  were  thrust  into  the  nearest  bank  and 
emptied  of  all  save  the  sick  and  a  few  men  to  guard  them. 
The  Arab  orator  ceased  his  outcries,  and  his  friends 
howled. 

'They  look  like  the  Mahdi's  men,'  said  Torpenhow, 
elbowing  himself  into  the  crush  of  the  square;  'but  what 
thousands  of  'em  there  are!  The  tribes  hereabouts  aren't 
against  us,  I  know.' 

'Then  the  Mahdi's  taken  another  town,'  said  Dick, 
'and  set  all  these  yelping  devils  free  to  chaw  us  up.  Lend 
us  your  glass.' 

'Our  scouts  should  have  told  us  of  this.  We've  been 
trapped,'  said  a  subaltern.  'Aren't  the  camel-guns  ever 
going  to  begin?    Hurry  up,  you  men ! ' 

There  was  no  need  for  any  order.  The  men  flung  them- 
selves panting  against  the  sides  of  the  square,  for  they  had 
good  reason  to  know  that  whoso  was  left  outside  when  the 
fighting  began  would  very  probably  die  in  an  extremely 


n  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  27 

unpleasant  fashion.  The  little  hundred-and-fifty-pound 
camel-guns  posted  at  one  corner  of  the  square  opened  the 
ball  as  the  square  moved  forward  by  its  right  to  get  pos- 
session of  a  knoll  of  rising  ground.  All  had  fought  in  this 
manner  many  times  before,  and  there  was  no  novelty  in 
the  entertainment:  always  the  same  hot  and  stifling  for- 
mation, the  smell  of  dust  and  leather,  the  same  boltlike 
rush  of  the  enemy,  the  same  pressure  on  the  weakest  side, 
the  few  minutes  of  hand-to-hand  scuffle,  and  then  the 
silence  of  the  desert,  broken  only  by  the  yells  of  those  whom 
their  handful  of  cavalry  attempted  to  pursue.  They  had 
become  careless.  The  camel-guns  spoke  at  intervals,  and 
the  square  slouched  forward  amid  the  protesting  of  the 
camels.  Then  came  the  attack  of  three  thousand  men 
who  had  not  learned  from  books  that  it  is  impossible  for 
troops  in  close  order  to  attack  against  breech-loading  fire. 
A  few  dropping  shots  heralded  their  approach,  and  a  few 
horsemen  led,  but  the  bulk  of  the  force  was  naked  human- 
ity, mad  with  rage,  and  armed  with  the  spear  and  the 
sword.  The  instinct  of  the  desert,  where  there  is  always 
much  war,  told  them  that  the  right  flank  of  the  square 
was  the  weakest,  for  they  swung  clear  of  the  front.  The 
camel-guns  shelled  them  as  they  passed,  and  opened  for  an 
instant  lanes  through  their  midst,  most  like  those  quick- 
closing  vistas  in  a  Kentish  hop-garden  seen  when  the 
train  races  by  at  full  speed;  and  the  infantry  fire,  held  till 
the  opportune  moment,  dropped  them  in  close-packed 
hundreds.  No  civilised  troops  in  the  world  could  have 
endured  the  hell  through  which  they  came,  the  living  leap- 


s8  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  chap. 

ing  high  to  avoid  the  d3ang  who  clutched  at  their  heels, 
the  wounded  cursing  and  staggering  forward,  till  they  fell 
— a  torrent  black  as  the  sKding  water  above  a  mill-dam — 
full  on  the  right  flank  of  the  square.  Then  the  line  of  the 
dasty  troops  and  the  faint  blue  desert  sky  overhead  went 
out  in  rolKng  smoke,  and  the  httle  stones  on  the  heated 
ground  and  the  tinder-dry  clumps  of  scrub  became  matters 
of  surpassing  interest,  for  men  measured  their  agonized 
retreat  and  recovery  by  these  things,  counting  mechan- 
ically and  he^ving  their  way  back  to  chosen  pebble  and 
branch.  There  was  no  semblance  of  any  concerted 
fighting.  For  aught  the  men  knew,  the  enemy  might  be 
attempting  all  four  sides  of  the  square  at  once.  Their 
business  was  to  destroy  what  lay  in  front  of  them,  to 
bayonet  in  the  back  those  who  passed  over  them,  and, 
dying,  to  drag  down  the  slayer  till  he  could  be  knocked 
on  the  head  by  some  avenging  gun-butt.  Dick  waited 
with  Torpenhow  and  a  young  doctor  till  the  stress  grew 
unendurable.  It  was  hopeless  to  attend  to  the  wounded 
till  the  attack  was  repulsed,  so  the  three  moved  forward 
gingerly  towards  the  weakest  side  of  the  square.  There 
was  a  rush  from  without,  the  short  hough-hough  of  the 
stabbing  spears,  and  a  man  on  a  horse,  followed  by  thirty 
or  forty  others,  dashed  through,  yelhng  and  hacking.  The 
right  flank  of  the  square  sucked  in  after  them,  and  the 
other  sides  sent  help.  The  wounded ,  who  knew  that  they 
had  but  a  few  hours  more  to  live,  caught  at  the  enemy's 
feet  and  brought  them  down,  or,  staggering  to  a  discarded 
rifle,  fired  blindly  into  the  scuffle  that  raged  in  the  centre  of 


n  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  29 

the  square.  Dick  was  conscious  that  somebody  had  cut 
him  violently  across  his  helmet,  that  he  had  fired  his  re- 
volver into  a  black,  foam-flecked  face  which  forthwith 
ceased  to  bear  any  resemblance  to  a  face,  and  that  Torpen- 
how  had  gone  down  under  an  Arab  whom  he  had  tried  to 
'collar  low,'  and  was  turning  over  and  over  with  his 
captive,  feeling  for  the  man's  eyes.  The  doctor  jabbed  at 
a  venture  with  a  bayonet,  and  a  helmetless  soldier  fired 
over  Dick's  shoulder:  the  flying  grains  of  powder  stung  his 
cheek.  It  was  to  Torpenhow  that  Dick  turned  by  in- 
stinct. The  representative  of  the  Central  Southern 
Syndicate  had  shaken  himself  clear  of  his  enemy,  and  rose, 
wiping  his  thumb  on  his  trousers.  The  Arab,  both  hands 
to  his  forehead,  screamed  aloud,  then  snatched  up  his 
spear  and  rushed  at  Torpenhow,  who  was  panting  under 
shelter  of  Dick's  revolver.  Dick  fired  twice,  and  the  man 
dropped  limply.  His  upturned  face  lacked  one  eye.  The 
musketry-fire  redoubled,  but  cheers  mingled  with  it.  The 
rush  had  failed  and  the  enemy  were  flying.  If  the  heart 
of  the  square  were  shambles,  the  ground  beyond  was  a 
butcher's  shop.  Dick  thrust  his  way  forward  between  the 
maddened  men.  The  remnant  of  the  enemy  were  retir- 
ing, as  the  few — the  very  few — EngHsh  cavalry  rode  down 
the  laggards. 

Beyond  the  lines  of  the  dead,  a  broad  blood-stained 
Arab  spear  cast  aside  in  the  retreat  lay  across  a  stump  of 
scrub,  and  beyond  this  again  the  illimitable  dark  levels  of 
the  desert.  The  sun  caught  the  steel  and  turned  it  into  a 
red  disc.     Some  one  behind  him  was  saying,  'Ah,  get 


30  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  chap. 

away,  you  brute! '  Dick  raised  his  revolver  and  pointed 
towards  the  desert.  His  eye  was  held  by  the  red  splash  in 
the  distance,  and  the  clamour  about  him  seemed  to  die 
down  to  a  very  far-away  whisper,  like  the  whisper  of  a 
level  sea.  There  was  the  revolver  and  the  red  light,  .  .  . 
and  the  voice  of  some  one  scaring  something  away, 
exactly  as  had  fallen  somewhere  before, — ^probably  in  a 
past  Hfe.  Dick  waited  for  what  should  happen  after- 
wards. Something  seemed  to  crack  inside  his  head,  and 
for  an  instant  he  stood  in  the  dark, — a  darkness  that 
stung.  He  fired  at  random,  and  the  bullet  went  out 
across  the  desert  as  he  muttered,  '  Spoilt  my  aim.  There 
aren't  any  more  cartridges.  We  shall  have  to  run  home.' 
He  put  his  hand  to  his  head  and  brought  it  away  covered 
with  blood. 

'Old  man,  you're  cut  rather  badly,'  said  Torpenhow. 
*I  owe  you  something  for  this  business.  Thanks.  Stand 
up!     I  say,  you  can't  be  ill  here.' 

Dick  had  fallen  stiffly  on  Torpenhow's  shoulder,  and 
muttered  something  about  aiming  low  and  to  the  left. 
Then  he  sank  to  the  ground  and  was  silent.  Torpenhow 
dragged  him  off  to  a  doctor  and  sat  down  to  work  out  an 
account  of  what  he  was  pleased  to  call  'a  sanguinary 
battle,  in  which  our  arms  had  acquitted  themselves,'  etc. 

Throughout  that  night,  when  the  troops  were  encamped 
by  the  whale-boats,  a  black  figure  danced  in  the  strong 
moonlight  on  the  sand-bar  and  shouted  that  Khartoum 
the  accursed  one  was  dead, — was  dead, — was  dead, — that 
two  steamers  were  rock-staked  on  the  Nile  outside  the 


n  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  31 

city,  and  that  of  all  their  crews  there  remained  not  one; 
and  Khartoum  was  dead, — was  dead, — was  dead! 

But  Torpenhow  took  no  heed.  He  was  watching  Dick, 
who  called  aloud  to  the  restless  Nile  for  Maisie, — and 
again  Maisie ! 

'Behold  a  phenomenon,'  said  Torpenhow,  rearranging 
the  blanket.  'Here  is  a  man,  presumably  human,  who 
mentions  the  name  of  one  woman  only.  And  I've  seen  a 
good  deal  of  deUrium,  too. — Dick,  here's  some  fizzy  drink.' 

'Thank  you,  Maisie,'  said  Dick. 


CHAPTER  III 

So  he  thinks  he  shall  take  to  the  sea  again 
For  one  more  cruise  with  his  buccaneers, 

To  singe  the  beard  of  the  King  of  Spain, 

And  capture  another  Dean  of  Jaen 

And  sell  him  in  Algiers. — A  Dutch  Picture.     Longfellow 

The  Soudan  campaign  and  Dick's  broken  head  had  been 
some  months  ended  and  mended,  and  the  Central 
Southern  Syndicate  had  paid  Dick  a  certain  sum  on 
account  for  work  done,  which  work  they  were  careful  to 
assure  him  was  not  altogether  up  to  their  standard.  Dick 
heaved  the  letter  into  the  Nile  at  Cairo,  cashed  the  draft 
in  the  same  town,  and  bade  a  warm  farewell  to  Torpen- 
how  at  the  station. 

'I  am  going  to  lie  up  for  a  while  and  rest,'  said  Torpen- 
how.  '  I  don't  know  where  I  shall  hve  in  London,  but  if 
God  brings  us  to  meet,  we  shall  meet.  Are  you  staying 
here  on  the  off-chance  of  another  row?  There  will  be  none 
till  the  Southern  Soudan  is  reoccupied  by  our  troops. 
Mark  that.  Good-bye;  bless  you;  come  back  when  your 
money's  spent;  and  give  me  your  address.' 

Dick  loitered  in  Cairo,  Alexandria,  Ismailia,  and  Port 
Said, — especially  Port  Said.  There  is  iniquity  in  many 
parts  of  the  world,  and  vice  in  all,  but  the  concentrated 

32 


CHAP,  in  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED 


33 


essence  of  all  the  iniquities  and  all  the  vices  in  all  the 
continents  finds  itself  at  Port  Said.  And  through  the 
heart  of  that  sand-bordered  hell,  where  the  mirage  flickers 
day  long  above  the  Bitter  Lakes,  move,  if  you  will  only 
wait,  most  of  the  men  and  women  you  have  known  in  this 
life,  Dick  established  himself  in  quarters  more  riotous 
than  respectable.  He  spent  his  evenings  on  the  quay,  and 
boarded  many  ships,  and  saw  very  many  friends, — 
gracious  EngHshwomen  Vvdth  whom  he  had  talked  not  too 
wisely  in  the  veranda  of  Shepheard's  Hotel,  hurrying  war 
correspondents,  skippers  of  the  contract  troop-ships 
employed  in  the  campaign,  army  officers  by  the  score,  and 
others  of  less  reputable  trades.  He  had  choice  of  all  the 
races  of  the  East  and  West  for  studies,  and  the  advantage 
of  seeing  his  subjects  under  the  influence  of  strong  excite- 
m.ent,  at  the  gaming-tables,  saloons,  dancing-hells,  and 
elsewhere.  For  recreation  there  was  the  straight  vista  of 
the  Canal,  the  blazing  sands,  the  procession  of  shipping, 
and  the  white  hospitals  where  the  EngHsh  soldiers  lay. 
He  strove  to  set  down  in  black  and  white  and  colour  aU 
that  Providence  sent  him,  and  when  that  supply  was 
ended  sought  about  for  fresh  material.  It  was  a  fascinat- 
ing employment,  but  it  ran  away  with  his  money,  and  he 
had  drawn  in  advance  the  hundred  and  twenty  pounds  to 
which  he  was  entitled  yearly.  'Now  I  shall  have  to  work 
and  starve!'  thought  he,  and  was  addressing  himself  to 
this  new  fate  when  a  mysterious  telegram  arrived  from 
Torpenhow  in  England,  which  said,  'Come  back,  quick: 
you  have  caught  on.     Come.' 


34  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAH^ED  chap. 

A  large  smile  overspread  his  face.  'So  soon!  that's 
good  hearing,'  said  he  to  himself.  'There  will  be  an  orgy 
to-night.  I'll  stand  or  fall  by  my  luck.  Faith,  it's  time 
it  came ! '  He  deposited  half  of  his  funds  in  the  hands  of 
his  well-known  friends  Monsieur  and  Madame  Binat,  and 
ordered  himself  a  Zanzibar  dance  of  the  finest.  Monsieur 
Binat  was  shaking  with  drink,  but  Madame  smiled  sym- 
pathetically— 

'Monsieur  needs  a  chair,  of  course,  and  of  course  Mon- 
sieur will  sketch:  Monsieur  amuses  himself  strangely.' 

Binat  raised  a  blue-white  face  from  a  cot  in  the  inner 
room.  '  I  understand,'  he  quavered.  '  We  all  know  Mon- 
sieur. Monsieur  is  an  artist,  as  I  have  been.'  Dick 
nodded.  'In  the  end,'  said  Binat,  with  gravity,  'Mon- 
sieur will  descend  alive  into  hell,  as  I  have  descended.' 
And  he  laughed. 

'You  must  come  to  the  dance  too,'  said  Dick;  'I  shall 
want  you.' 

'  For  my  face?  I  knew  it  would  be  so.  For  my  face? 
My  God !  and  for  my  degradation  so  tremendous !  I  will 
not.  Take  him  away.  He  is  a  devil.  Or  at  least  do  thou, 
Celeste,  demand  of  him  more.'  The  excellent  Binat 
began  to  kick  and  scream. 

'All  things  are  for  sale  in  Port  Said,'  said  Madame.  'If 
my  husband  comes  it  will  be  so  much  more.  Eh,  'ow  you 
call — 'alf  a  sovereign.' 

The  money  was  paid,  and  the  mad  dance  was  held  at 
night  in  a  walled  courtyard  at  the  back  of  Madame 
Binat's  house.     The  lady  herself,  in  faded  mauve  silk 


m  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAH^ED  35 

always  about  to  slide  from  her  yellow  shoulders,  played 
the  piano,  and  to  the  tin-pot  music  of  a  Western  waltz  the 
naked  Zanzibar!  girls  danced  furiously  by  the  hght  of 
kerosene  lamps.  Binat  sat  upon  a  chair  and  stared  with 
eyes  that  saw  nothing,  till  the  whirl  of  the  dance  and  the 
clang  of  the  rattling  piano  stole  into  the  drink  that  took 
the  place  of  blood  in  his  veins,  and  his  face  glistened. 
Dick  took  him  by  the  chin  brutally  and  turned  that  face 
to  the  light.  Madame  Binat  looked  over  her  shoulder 
and  smiled  with  many  teeth.  Dick  leaned  against  the 
wall  and  sketched  for  an  hour,  till  the  kerosene  lamps  be- 
gan to  smell,  and  the  girls  threw  themselves  panting  on  the 
hard-beaten  ground.  Then  he  shut  his  book  with  a  snap 
and  moved  away,  Binat  plucking  feebly  at  his  elbow. 
'Show  me,'  he  whimpered.  'I  too  was  once  an  artist, 
even  I!'  Dick  showed  him  the  rough  sketch.  'Am  I 
that? '  he  screamed.  'Will  you  take  that  away  with  you 
and  show  all  the  world  that  it  is  I,— Binat? '  He  moaned 
and  wept. 

'Monsieur  has  paid  for  all,'  said  Madame.  'To  the 
pleasure  of  seeing  Monsieur  again.' 

The  courtyard  gate  shut,  and  Dick  hurried  up  the 
sandy  street  to  the  nearest  gambling-hell,  where  he  was 
well  known.  'If  the  luck  holds,  it's  an  omen;  if  I  lose,  I 
must  stay  here.'  He  placed  his  money  picturespuely 
about  the  board,  hardly  daring  to  look  at  what  he  did. 
The  luck  held.  Three  turns  of  the  wheel  left  him  richer 
by  twenty  pounds,  and  he  went  down  to  the  shipping  to 
make  friends  with  the  captain  of  a  decayed  cargo-steamer, 


36  THE  LIGHT  TH.\T  FAILED  chap. 

who  landed  him  in  London  with  fewer  pounds  in  his 
pocket  than  he  cared  to  think  about. 

A  thin  gray  fog  hung  over  the  city,  and  the  streets  were 
very  cold;  for  summer  was  in  England. 

'It's  a  cheerful  wilderness,  and  it  hasn't  the  knack  of 
altering  much,'  Dick  thought,  as  he  tramped  from  the 
Docks  westward.     'Now,  what  must  I  do?' 

The  packed  houses  gave  no  answer.  Dick  looked  down 
the  long  lightless  streets  and  at  the  appaUing  rush  of 
trafi&c.  '  Oh,  you  rabbit-hutches ! '  said  he,  addressing  a 
row  of  highly  respectable  semi-detached  residences.  '  Do 
you  know  what  you've  got  to  do  later  on?  You  have  to 
supply  me  with  men-servants  and  maid-servants,' — here 
he  smacked  his  lips, — 'and  the  pecuHar  treasure  of  kings. 
Meantime  I'll  get  clothes  and  boots,  and  presently  I  wiU 
return  and  trample  on  you.'  He  stepped  forward  ener- 
getically; he  saw  that  one  of  his  shoes  was  burst  at  the 
side.  As  he  stooped  to  make  investigations,  a  man 
jostled  him  into  the  gutter.  '  All  right,'  he  said.  '  That's 
another  nick  in  the  score.     I'll  jostle  you  later  on.' 

Good  clothes  and  boots  are  not  cheap,  and  Dick  left  his 
last  shop  with  the  certainty  that  he  would  be  respectably 
arrayed  for  a  time,  but  with  only  fifty  shillings  in  his 
pocket.  He  returned  to  streets  by  the  Docks,  and  lodged 
himself  in  one  room,  where  the  sheets  on  the  bed  were 
almost  audibly  marked  in  case  of  theft,  and  where  nobody 
seemed  to  go  to  bed  at  all.  When  his  clothes  arrived  he 
sought  the  Central  Southern  Syndicate  for  Torpenhow's 


m  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  37 

address,  and  got  it,  with  the  intimation  that  there  was 
still  some  money  owing  to  him. 

'How  much? '  said  Dick,  as  one  who  habitually  dealt  in 
millions. 

'Between  thirty  and  forty  pounds.  If  it  would  be  any 
convenience  to  you,  of  course  we  could  let  you  have  it  at 
once;  but  we  usually  settle  accounts  monthly.' 

'If  I  show  that  I  want  anything  now,  I'm  lost,'  he  said 
to  himself .  'All  I  need  I'll  take  later  on.'  Then,  aloud, 
'It's  hardly  worth  while;  and  I'm  going  into  the  country 
for  a  month,  too.  Wait  till  I  come  back,  and  I'll  see  about 
it.' 

'But  we  trust,  Mr.  Heldar,  that  you  do  not  intend  to 
sever  your  connection  with  us? ' 

Dick's  business  in  Hfe  was  the  study  of  faces,  and  he 
watched  the  speaker  keenly.  'That  man  means  some- 
thing,' he  said.  '  I'll  do  no  business  till  I've  seen  Torpen- 
how.  There's  a  big  deal  coming.'  So  he  departed, 
making  no  promises,  to  his  one  little  room  by  the  Docks. 
And  that  day  was  the  seventh  of  the  month,  and  that 
month,  he  reckoned  with  awful  distinctness,  had  thirty- 
one  days  in  it ! 

It  is  not  easy  for  a  man  of  catholic  tastes  and  healthy 
appetites  to  exist  for  twenty-four  days  on  fifty  shillings. 
Nor  is  it  cheering  to  begin  the  experiment  alone  in  all  the 
loneHness  of  London.  Dick  paid  seven  shilHngs  a  week 
for  his  lodging,  which  left  him  rather  less  than  a  shilling 
a  day  for  food  and  drink.  Naturally,  his  first  purchase 
was  of  the  materials  of  his  craft;  he  had  been  without 


38  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  chap. 

them  too  long.  Half  a  day's  investigation  and  compari- 
son brought  him  to  the  conclusion  that  sausages  and 
mashed  potatoes,  twopence  a  plate,  were  the  best  food. 
Now,  sausages  once  or  twice  a  week  for  breakfast  are  not 
unpleasant.  As  lunch,  even,  with  mashed  potatoes,  they 
become  monotonous.  As  dinner  they  are  impertinent.  At 
the  end  of  three  days  Dick  loathed  sausages,  and,  going 
forth,  pawned  his  watch  to  revel  on  sheep's  head,  which 
is  not  as  cheap  as  it  looks,  owing  to  the  bones  and  the 
gravy.  Then  he  returned  to  sausages  and  mashed  pota- 
toes. Then  he  confined  himself  entirely  to  mashed  po- 
tatoes for  a  day,  and  was  unhappy  because  of  pain  in 
his  inside.  Then  he  pawned  his  waistcoat  and  his  tie,  and 
thought  regretfully  of  money  thrown  away  in  times  past. 
There  are  few  things  more  edif}dng  unto  Art  than  the  ac- 
tual belly-pinch  of  hunger,  and  Dick  in  his  few  walks 
abroad — he  did  not  care  for  exercise;  it  raised  desires 
that  could  not  be  satisfied — found  himself  dividing  man- 
kind into  two  classes, — those  who  looked  as  if  they  might 
give  him  something  to  eat,  and  those  who  looked  other- 
wise. 'I  never  knew  what  I  had  to  learn  about  the  hu- 
man face  before,'  he  thought;  and,  as  a  reward  for  his 
humility.  Providence  caused  a  cab-driver  at  a  sausage- 
shop  where  Dick  fed  that  night  to  leave  half  eaten  a  great 
chunk  of  bread.  Dick  took  it, — would  have  fought  all 
the  world  for  its  possession, — and  it  cheered  him. 

The  month  dragged  through  at  last,  and,  nearly  pranc- 
ing with  impatience,  he  went  to  draw  his  money.  Then  he 
hastened  to  Torpenhow's  address  and  smelt  the  smell  of 


in  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  39 

cooking  meats  all  along  the  corridors  of  the  chambers. 
Torpenhow  was  on  the  top  floor,  and  Dick  burst  into  his 
room,  to  be  received  with  a  hug  which  nearly  cracked  his 
ribs,  as  Torpenhow  dragged  him  to  the  hght  and  spoke  of 
twenty  different  things  in  the  same  breath. 

'But  you're  looking  tucked  up,'  he  concluded. 

'  Got  anything  to  eat? '  said  Dick,  his  eye  roaming  round 
the  room. 

'  I  shall  be  having  breakfast  in  a  minute.  What  do  you 
say  to  sausages? ' 

'No,  anything  but  sausages!  Torp,  I've  been  starving 
on  that  accursed  horse-flesh  for  thirty  days  and  thirty 
nights." 

'  Now,  what  lunacy  has  been  your  latest? ' 

Dick  spoke  of  the  last  few  weeks  with  unbridled  speech. 
Then  he  opened  his  coat;  there  was  no  waistcoat  below. 
'I  ran  it  fine,  awfully  fine,  but  I've  just  scraped  through.' 

'You  haven't  much  sense,  but  you've  got  a  backbone, 
anyhow.  Eat,  and  talk  afterwards.'  Dick  fell  upon 
eggs  and  bacon  and  gorged  till  he  could  gorge  no  more. 
Torpenhow  handed  him  a  filled  pipe,  and  he  smoked  as 
men  smoke  who  for  three  weeks  have  been  deprived  of 
good  tobacco. 

'  Ouf ! '  said  he.     '  That's  heavenly !    Well? ' 

'  WTiy  in  the  world  didn't  you  come  to  me? ' 

'Couldn't;  I  owe  you  too  much  already,  old  man. 
Besides  I  had  a  sort  of  superstition  that  this  temporary 
starvation — that's  what  it  was,  and  it  hurt — would 
bring  me  more  luck  later.     It's  over  and  done  with  now, 


40  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  chap. 

and  none  of  the  syndicate  know  how  hard  up  I  was.  Fire 
away.  What's  the  exact  state  of  affairs  as  regards  my- 
self?' 

'You  had  my  wire?  You've  caught  on  here.  People 
like  your  work  immensely.  I  don't  know  why,  but  they 
do.  They  say  you  have  a  fresh  touch  and  a  new  way  of 
drawing  things.  And,  because  they're  chiefly  home-bred 
EngHsh,  they  say  you  have  insight.  You're  wanted  by 
half  a  dozen  papers;  you're  wanted  to  illustrate  books.' 
'  Dick  grunted  scornfully. 
^.  'You're  wanted  to  work  up  your  smaller  sketches  and 
sell  them  to  the  dealers.  They  seem  to  think  the  money 
sunk  in  you  is  a  good  investment.  Good  Lord !  who  can 
account  for  the  fathomless  folly  of  the  public? ' 

'They're  a  remarkably  sensible  people.' 

'They  are  subject  to  fits,  if  that's  what  you  mean;  and 
you  happen  to  be  the  object  of  the  latest  fit  among  those 
who  are  interested  in  what  they  call  Art.  Just  now 
you're  a  fashion,  a  phenomenon,  or  whatever  you  please. 
I  appeared  to  be  the  only  person  who  knew  anything 
about  you  here,  and  I  have  been  showing  the  most  useful 
men  a  few  of  the  sketches  you  gave  me  from  time  to  time. 
Those  coming  after  your  work  on  the  Central  Southern 
Syndicate  appear  to  have  done  your  business.  You're  in 
luck.' 

'Huh!  call  it  luck!  Do  call  it  luck,  when  a  man  has 
been  kicking  about  the  world  like  a  dog,  waiting  for  it  to 
come!  I'll  luck  'em  later  on.  I  want  a  place  to  work  in 
first.' 


m  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAHvED  41 

'Come  here,'  said  Torpenhow,  crossing  the  landing. 
'This  place  is  a  big  box  room  really,  but  it  will  do  for  you. 
There's  your  skyhght,  or  your  north  light,  or  whatever 
window  you  call  it,  and  plenty  of  room  to  thrash  about  in, 
and  a  bedroom  beyond.     What  more  do  you  need? ' 

'  Good  enough,'  said  Dick,  looking  round  the  large  room 
that  took  up  a  tliird  of  a  top  story  in  the  rickety  cham- 
bers overlooking  the  Thames.  A  pale  yellow  sun  shone 
through  the  skylight  and  showed  the  much  dirt  of  the 
place.  Three  steps  led  from  the  door  to  the  landing,  and 
three  more  to  Torpenhow 's  room.  The  well  of  the  stair- 
case disappeared  into  darkness,  pricked  by  tiny  gas-jets, 
and  there  were  sounds  of  men  talking  and  doors  slamming 
seven  flights  below,  in  the  warm  gloom. 

'Do  they  give  you  a  free  hand  here?'  said  Dick, 
cautiously.  He  was  Ishmael  enough  to  know  the  value 
of  hbertv. 

'Anything  you  like:  latch-keys  and  license  unlimited. 
We  are  permanent  tenants  for  the  most  part  here,  'Tisn't 
a  place  I  would  recommend  for  a  Young  Men's  Christian 
Association,  but  it  will  serve.  I  took  these  rooms  for  you 
when  I  wired.' 

'You're  a  great  deal  too  kind,  old  man.' 

'You  didn't  suppose  you  were  going  away  from  me,  did 
you? '  Torpenhow  put  his  hand  on  Dick's  shoulder,  and 
the  two  walked  up  and  down  the  room,  henceforward  to 
be  called  the  studio,  in  sweet  and  silent  communion. 
They  heard  rapping  at  Torpenhov/'s  door.  'That's 
some  ruffian  come  up  for  a  drink,'  said  Torpenhow;  and  he 


42  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  chap. 

raised  his  voice  cheerily.  There  entered  no  one  more 
ruffianly  than  a  portly  middle-aged  gentleman  in  a  satin- 
faced  frockcoat.  His  lips  were  parted  and  pale,  and  there 
were  deep  pouches  under  the  eyes. 

'Weak  heart,'  said  Dick  to  himself,  and,  as  he  shook 
hands,  'very  weak  heart.  His  pulse  is  shaking  his  fin- 
gers.' 

The  man  introduced  himself  as  the  head  of  the  Central 
Southern  Svndicate  and  'one  of  the  most  ardent  admirers 
of  your  work,  Mr.  Heldar.  I  assure  you,  in  the  name  of 
the  syndicate,  that  we  are  immensely  indebted  to  you; 
and  I  trust,  Mr.  Heldar,  you  won't  forget  that  we  were 
largely  instrumental  in  bringing  you  before  the  public' 
He  panted  because  of  the  seven  flights  of  stairs. 

Dick  glanced  at  Torpenhow  whose  left  eyelid  lay  for  a 
moment  dead  on  his  cheek. 

'I  shan't  forget,'  said  Dick,  every  instinct  of  defence 
roused  in  him.  'You've  paid  me  so  well  that  I  couldn't, 
you  know.  By  the  way,  when  I  am  settled  in  this  place  I 
should  like  to  send  and  get  my  sketches.  There  must  be 
nearly  a  hundred  and  fifty  of  them  with  you.' 

'  That  is  er — is  what  I  came  to  speak  about.  I  fear  we 
can't  allow  it  exactly,  Mr.  Heldar.  In  the  absence  of  any 
specified  agreement,  the  sketches  are  our  property,  of 
course.' 

'Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  are  going  to  keep  them? ' 

'Yes;  and  we  hope  to  have  your  help,  on  your  own 
terms,  Mr.  Heldar,  to  assist  us  in  arranging  a  little  ex- 
hibition, wliich,  backed  by  our  name  and  the  influence  we 


m  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAH^ED  43 

naturally  command  among  the  press,  should  be  of  mate- 
rial service  to  you.     Sketches  such  as  yours ' 

'  Belong  to  me.  You  engaged  me  by  wire,  you  paid  me 
the  lowest  rates  you  dared.  You  can't  mean  to  keep  them ! 
Good  God  aKve,  man,  they're  all  I've  got  in  the  world! ' 

Torpenhow  watched  Dick's  face  and  whistled. 

Dick  walked  up  and  down,  thinking.  He  saw  the  whole 
of  his  httle  stock  in  trade,  the  first  weapon  of  his  equip- 
ment, annexed  at  the  outset  of  his  campaign  by  an  elderly 
gentleman  whose  name  Dick  had  not  caught  aright, 
who  said  that  he  represented  a  syndicate,  which  was  a 
thing  for  which  Dick  had  not  the  least  reverence.  The  in- 
justice of  the  proceedings  did  not  much  move  him;  he  had 
seen  the  strong  hand  prevail  too  often  in  other  places  to  be 
squeamish  over  the  moral  aspects  of  right  and  wrong. 
But  he  ardently  desired  the  blood  of  the  gentleman  in  the 
frockcoat,  and  when  he  spoke  again  it  was  with  a  strained 
sweetness  that  Torpenhow  knew  well  for  the  beginning  of 
strife. 

'Forgive  me,  sir,  but  you  have  no — no  younger  man 
who  can  arrange  this  business  with  me? ' 

'  I  speak  for  the  syndicate.  I  see  no  reason  for  a  third 
party  to ' 

'You  will  in  a  minute.  Be  good  enough  to  give  back 
my  sketches.' 

The  man  stared  blankly  at  Dick,  and  then  at  Torpen- 
how, who  was  leaning  against  the  wall.  He  was  not  used 
to  ex-employees  who  ordered  him  to  be  good  enough  to  do 
things. 


44  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  chap. 

*  Yes,  it  is  rather  a  cold-blooded  steal/  said  Torpenhow, 
critically;  'but  I'm  afraid,  I  am  very  much  afraid,  you've 
struck  the  wrong  man.  Be  careful,  Dick:  remember,  this 
isn't  the  Soudan.' 

'  Considering  what  services  the  syndicate  have  done  you 
in  putting  your  name  before  the  world ' 

Tliis  was  not  a  fortunate  remark;  it  reminded  Dick  of 
certain  vagrant  years  Hved  out  in  loneHness  and  strife  and 
unsatisfied  desires.  The  memory  did  not  contrast  well 
with  the  prosperous  gentlem.an  who  proposed  to  enjoy  the 
fruit  of  those  years. 

'I  don't  know  quite  what  to  do  with  you,'  began  Dick, 
meditatively.  'Of  course  you're  a  thief,  and  you  ought 
to  be  half  killed,  but  in  your  case  you'd  probably  die.  I 
don't  want  you  dead  on  this  floor,  and,  besides,  it's  un- 
lucky just  as  one's  moving  in.  Don't  hit,  sir;  you'll  only 
excite  yourself.'  He  put  one  hand  on  the  man's  forearm 
and  ran  the  other  down  the  plump  body  beneath  the  coat. 
'My  goodness!'  said  he  to  Torpenhow,  'and  this  gray  oaf 
dares  to  be  a  thief!  I  have  seen  an  Esneh  camel-driver 
have  the  black  hide  taken  off  his  body  in  strips  for  stealing 
half  a  pound  of  wet  dates,  and  he  was  as  tough  as  wliip- 
cord.     This  thing's  soft  all  over — like  a  woman.' 

There  are  few  things  more  poignantly  humiliating  than 
being  handled  by  a  man  who  does  not  intend  to  strike. 
The  head  of  the  syndicate  began  to  breathe  heavily. 
Dick  walked  round  him,  pawing  him,  as  a  cat  paws  a 
soft  hearth-rug.  Then  he  traced  with  his  forefinger  the 
leaden  pouches  underneath  the  eyes,  and  shook  his  head. 


in  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  45 

'You  were  going  to  steal  my  things, — mine,  mine,  mine!— 
you,  who  don't  know  when  you  may  die.  Write  a  note  to 
your  office, — you  say  you're  the  head  of  it, — and  order 
them  to  give  Torpenhow  my  sketches, — every  one  of 
them.  Wait  a  minute:  your  hand's  shaking.  Now!' 
He  thrust  a  pocket-book  before  him.  The  note  was 
written.  Torpenhow  took  it  and  departed  without  a 
word,  while  Dick  walked  round  and  round  the  spellbound 
captive,  giving  him  such  advice  as  he  conceived  best  for 
the  v/elfare  of  his  soul.  When  Torpenhow  returned  with 
a  gigantic  portfolio,  he  heard  Dick  say,  almost  soothingly, 
'Now,  I  hope  this  will  be  a  lesson  to  you;  and  if  you  worry 
me  when  I  have  settled  down  to  work  with  any  nonsense 
about  actions  for  assault,  believe  me,  I'll  catch  you  and 
manhandle  you,  and  you'll  die.  You  haven't  very  long 
to  Hve,  anyhow.  Go!  Imshi,  Vootsak, — get  out!'  The 
man  departed,  staggering  and  dazed.  Dick  drew  a  long 
breath:  'Phew!  what  a  lawless  lot  these  people  are!  The 
first  thing  a  poor  orphan  meets  is  gang  robbery,  organised 
burglary!  Think  of  the  hideous  blackness  of  that  man's 
mind!     Are  my  sketches  all  right,  Torp? ' 

'Yes;  one  hundred  and  forty-seven  of  them.  Well,  I 
must  say,  Dick,  you've  begun  well.' 

'He  was  interfering  with  me.  It  only  meant  a  few 
pounds  to  him,  but  it  was  everything  to  me.  I  don't 
think  he'll  bring  an  action.  I  gave  him  some  medical 
advice  gratis  about  the  state  of  his  body.  It  was  cheap 
at  the  Httle  flurry  it  cost  him.  Now,  let's  look  at  my 
things.' 


46  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  chap,  hi 

Two  minutes  later  Dick  had  thrown  himself  down  on 
IItc  floor  and  was  deep  in  the  portfolio,  chuckling  lovingly 
as  he  turned  the  drawings  over  and  thought  of  the  price  at 
wliich  they  had  been  bought. 

The  afternoon  was  well  advanced  when  Torpenhow 
came  to  the  door  and  saw  Dick  dancing  a  wild  saraband 
under  the  skylight. 

'I  builded  better  than  I  knew,  Torp,'  he  said,  without 
stopping  the  dance.  'They're  good!  They're  damned 
good!  They'll  go  like  flame!  I  shall  have  an  exhibition 
of  them  on  my  own  brazen  hook.  And  that  man  would 
have  cheated  me  out  of  it!  Do  you  know  that  I'm  sorry 
now  that  I  didn't  actually  liit  him? ' 

'  Go  out,'  said  Torpenhow, — 'go  out  and  pray  to  be  de- 
livered from  the  sin  of  arrogance,  which  you  never  will  be. 
Bring  your  things  up  from  whatever  place  you're  staying 
in,  and  we'll  try  to  make  this  barn  a  little  more  ship- 
shape.' 

'And  then — oh,  then,'  said  Dick,  still  capering,  'we 
will  spoil  the  Egyptians! ' 


CHAPTER  IV 

The  wolf-cub  at  even  lay  hid  in  the  corn, 
When  the  smoke  of  the  cooking  hung  gray: 

He  knew  where  the  doe  made  a  couch  for  her  fawn, 
And  he  looked  to  his  strength  for  his  prey. 
But  the  moon  swept  the  smoke-wreaths  away. 

And  he  turned  from  his  meal  in  the  villager's  close, 

And  he  bayed  to  the  moon  as  she  rose. — In  Seonee. 

'Well,  and  how  does  success  taste?'  said  Torpenhow, 
some  three  months  later.  He  had  just  returned  to 
chambers  after  a  holiday  in  the  country. 

'Good,'  said  Dick,  as  he  sat  licking  his  lips  before  the 
easel  in  the  studio.  'I  want  more,— heaps  more.  The 
lean  years  have  passed,  and  I  approve  of  these  fat  ones.' 
'  Be  careful,  old  man.  That  way  Hes  bad  work.' 
Torpenhow  was  sprawKng  in  a  long  chair  with  a  small 
fox-terrier  asleep  on  his  chest,  while  Dick  was  preparing  a 
canvas.  A  dais,  a  background,  and  a  lay-figure  were  the 
only  fixed  objects  in  the  place.  They  rose  from  a  wreck 
of  oddments  that  began  with  felt-covered  water-bottles, 
belts,  and  regimental  badges,  and  ended  with  a  small  bale 
of  second-hand  uniforms  and  a  stand  of  mLxed  arms.  The 
mark  of  muddy  feet  on  the  dais  showed  that  a  mihtary 
model  had  just  gone  away.     The  watery  autumn  sunlight 

47 


48  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAH^ED  chap. 

was  failing,  and  shadows  sat  in  the  corners  of  the 
studio. 

'Yes,'  said  Dick,  deliberately,  'I  like  the  power;  I  like 
the  fun ;  I  like  the  fuss ;  and  above  all  I  like  the  money.  I 
almost  like  the  people  who  make  the  fuss  and  pay  the 
money.  Almost.  But  they're  a  queer  gang, — an  amaz- 
ingly queer  gang ! ' 

'They  have  been  good  enough  to  you,  at  any  rate. 
That  tin-pot  exliibition  of  your  sketches  must  have 
paid.  Did  you  see  that  the  papers  called  it  the  "Wild 
Work  Show"?' 

'  Never  mind.  I  sold  every  shred  of  canvas  I  wanted  to ; 
and,  on  my  word,  I  beHeve  it  was  because  they  believed  I 
was  a  self-taught  flagstone  artist.  I  should  have  got 
better  prices  if  I  had  worked  my  things  on  wool  or 
scratched  them  on  camel-bone  instead  of  using  mere  black 
and  white  and  colour.  Verily,  they  are  a  queer  gang, 
these  people.  Limited  isn't  the  word  to  describe  'em.  I 
met  a  fellow  the  other  day  who  told  me  that  it  was  im- 
possible that  shadows  on  white  sand  should  be  blue, — 
ultramarine, — as  they  are.  I  found  out,  later,  that  that 
man  had  been  as  far  as  Brighton  beach;  but  he  knew  all 
about  Art,  confound  him.  He  gave  me  a  lecture  on  it, 
and  recommended  me  to  go  to  school  to  learn  technique. 
I  wonder  what  old  Kami  would  have  said  to  that.' 

'When  were  you  under  Kami,  man  of  extraordinary 
beginnings? ' 

*I  studied  with  him  for  two  years  in  Paris.  He  taught 
by  personal  magnetism.     All  he  ever  said  was,  ^'Contin- 


IV  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAD^ED  49 

uez,  mes  enfants/'  and  you  had  to  make  the  best  you  could 
of  that.  He  had  a  divine  touch,  and  he  knew  something 
about  colour.  Kami  used  to  dream  colour;  I  swear  he 
could  never  have  seen  the  genuine  article;  but  he  evolved 
it;  and  it  was  good.' 

'Recollect  some  of  those  views  in  the  Soudan?'  said 
Torpenhow,  with  a  provoking  drawl. 

Dick  squirmed  in  his  place.  'Don't!  It  makes  me 
want  to  get  out  there  again.  What  colour  that  was! 
Opal  and  umber  and  amber  and  claret  and  brick-red  and 
sulphur — cockatoo-crest  sulphur — against  brown,  with  a 
nigger-black  rock  sticking  up  in  the  middle  of  it  all,  and  a 
decorative  frieze  of  camels  festooning  in  front  of  a  pure 
pale  turquoise  sky.'  He  began  to  walk  up  and  down. 
'And  yet,  you  know,  if  you  try  to  give  these  people  the 
thing  as  God  gave  it,  keyed  down  to  their  comprehension 
and  according  to  the  powers  He  has  given  you ' 

'  Modest  man !     Go  on ! ' 

'Half  a  dozen  epicene  young  pagans  who  haven't  even 
been  to  Algiers  will  tell  you,  first,  that  your  notion  is 
borrowed,  and,  secondly,  that  it  isn't  Art.' 

'This  comes  of  my  leaving  town  for  a  month.  Dickie, 
you've  been  promenading  among  the  toy-shops  and  hear- 
ing people  talk.' 

'I  couldn't  help  it,'  said  Dick,  penitently.  'You  weren't 
here,  and  it  was  lonely  these  long  evenings.  A  man  can't 
work  for  ever.' 

'A  man  might  have  gone  to  a  pub ,  and  got  decently  drunk. ' 

'I  wish  I  had;  but  I  forgathered  with  some  men  of 


so  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  chap. 

sorts.  They  said  they  were  artists,  and  I  knew  some  of 
them  could  draw, — but  they  wouldn't  draw.  They  gave 
me  tea, — tea  at  five  in  the  afternoon ! — and  talked  about 
Art  and  the  state  of  their  souls.  As  if  their  souls  mattered. 
I've  heard  more  about  Art  and  seen  less  of  her  in  the  last 
six  months  than  in  the  whole  of  my  Ufe.  Do  you  re- 
member Cassavetti,  who  worked  for  some  continental 
syndicate,  out  mth  the  desert  column?  He  was  a  regular 
Christmas-tree  of  contraptions  when  he  took  the  field  in 
full  fig,  with  his  water-bottle,  lanyard,  revolver,  writing- 
case,  housewife,  gig-lamps,  and  the  Lord  knows  what  all. 
He  used  to  fiddle  about  with  'em  and  show  us  how  they 
worked ;  but  he  never  seemed  to  do  much  except  fudge  his 
reports  from  the  Nilghai.     See? ' 

'Dear  old  Nilghai!  He's  in  town,  fatter  than  ever.  He 
ought  to  be  up  here  this  evening.  I  see  the  comparison 
perfectly.  You  should  have  kept  clear  of  all  that  man- 
millinery.  Serves  you  right;  and  I  hope  it  will  unsettle 
your  mind.' 

'  It  won't.  It  has  taught  me  what  Art — holy  sacred  Art 
— means.' 

'You've  learnt  something  while  I've  been  away.  What 
is  Art?' 

'Give  'em  what  they  know,  and  when  you've  done  it 
once  do  it  again.'  Dick  dragged  forward  a  canvas  laid 
face  to  the  waU.  'Here's  a  sample  of  real  Art,  It's 
going  to  be  a  facsimile  reproduction  for  a  weekly.  I 
called  it  "His  Last  Shot."  It's  worked  up  from  the  Httle 
water-colour  I  made  outside  El  Maghrib.     Well,  I  lured 


IV  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  51 

my  model,  a  beautiful  rifleman,  up  here  with  drink;  I 
drored  him,  and  I  redrored  him,  and  I  tredrored  him,  and 
I  made  him  a  flushed,  dishevelled,  bedevilled  scallawag, 
with  his  helmet  at  the  back  of  his  head,  and  the  living 
fear  of  death  in  his  eye,  and  the  blood  oozing  out  of  a  cut 
over  his  ankle-bone.  He  wasn't  pretty,  but  he  was  all 
soldier  and  very  much  man.' 

'Once  more,  modest  child!' 

Dick  laughed.  'Well,  it's  only  to  you  I'm  talking.  I 
did  him  just  as  well  as  I  knew  how,  making  allowance  for 
the  slickness  of  oils.  Then  the  art-manager  of  that 
abandoned  paper  said  that  his  subscribers  wouldn't  like 
it.  It  was  brutal  and  coarse  and  violent,— man  being 
naturally  gentle  when  he's  fighting  for  his  Hfe.  They 
wanted  something  more  restful,  with  a  little  more  colour. 
I  could  have  said  a  good  deal,  but  you  might  as  well  talk 
to  a  sheep  as  an  art-manager.  I  took  my  ''Last  Shot" 
back.  Behold  the  result!  I  put  him  into  a  lovely  red 
coat  without  a  speck  on  it.  That  is  Art.  I  poHshed  his 
boots, — observe  the  high  light  on  the  toe.  That  is  Art. 
I  cleaned  his  rifle, — rifles  are  always  clean  on  service,- — 
because  that  is  Art.  I  pipeclayed  his  helmet, — pipeclay 
is  always  used  on  active  service,  and  is  indespensable  to 
Art.  I  shaved  his  chin,  I  washed  his  hands,  and  gave 
him  an  air  of  fatted  peace.  Result,  mflitary  tailor's 
pattern-plate.  Price,  thank  Heaven,  twice  as  much  as 
for  the  first  sketch,  which  was  moderately  decent.' 

'And  do  you  suppose  you're  going  to  give  that  thing 
out  as  your  work? ' 


52  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  ch.\p. 

'Why  not?  I  did  it.  Alone  I  did  it,  in  the  interests  of 
sacred,  home-bred  Art  and  Dickenson's  Weekly.' 

Torpenhow  smoked  in  silence  for  a  while.  Then  came 
the  verdict,  delivered  from  rolling  clouds:  'If  you  were 
only  a  mass  of  blathering  vanity,  Dick,  I  wouldn't  mind, 
— I'd  let  you  go  to  the  deuce  on  your  own  mahl-stick;  but 
when  I  consider  what  you  are  to  me,  and  when  I  find  that 
to  vanity  you  add  the  twopenny-halfpenny  pique  of  a 
twelve-year-old  girl,  then  I  bestir  myself  in  your  behalf. 
Thus!' 

The  canvas  ripped  as  Torpenhow's  booted  foot  shot 
through  it,  and  the  terrier  jumped  down,  thinking  rats 
were  about. 

'  If  you  have  any  bad  language  to  use,  use  it.  You  have 
not.  I  continue.  You  are  an  idiot,  because  no  man  born 
of  woman  is  strong  enough  to  take  Hberties  with  his 
pubHc,  even  though  they  be — which  they  ain't — all  you 
say  they  are.' 

'But  they  don't  know  any  better.  What  can  you 
expect  from  creatures  born  and  bred  in  this  Hght? '  Dick 
pointed  to  the  yellow  fog.  'If  they  want  furniture- 
pohsh,  let  them  have  furniture-poUsh,  so  long  as  they  pay 
for  it.  They  are  only  men  and  women.  You  talk  as 
though  they  were  gods.' 

'That  sounds  very  tine,  but  it  has  nothing  to  do  with 
the  case.  They  are  the  people  you  have  to  work  for, 
whether  you  like  it  or  not.  They  are  your  masters. 
Don't  be  deceived,  Dickie,  you  aren't  strong  enough  to 
trifle  with  them, — or  with  yourself,  which  is  more  im- 


IV  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  53 

portant.  Moreover, — Come  back,  Binkie :  that  red  daub 
isn't  going  anywhere, — unless  you  take  precious  good 
care,  you  will  fall  under  the  damnation  of  the  check-book, 
and  that's  worse  than  death.  You  wdll  get  drunk — you're 
half  drunk  already — on  easily  acquired  money.  For  that 
money  and  your  own  infernal  vanity  you  are  willing  to 
dehberately  turn  out  bad  work.  You'll  do  quite  enough 
bad  work  without  knowing  it.  And,  Dickie,  as  I  love  you 
and  as  I  know  you  love  me,  I  am  not  going  to  let  you  cut 
off  your  nose  to  spite  your  face  for  all  the  gold  in  England. 
That's  settled.     Now  swear.' 

'  Don't  know, '  said  Dick.  '  I've  been  trying  to  make  my- 
self angry,  but  I  can't,  you're  so  abominably  reasonable. 
There  v/ill  be  a  row  on  Dickenson's  Weekly,  I  fancy.' 

'  Vi' hy  the  Dickenson  do  you  want  to  work  on  a  weekly 
paper?     It's  slow  bleeding  of  power.' 

'It  brings  in  the  very  desirable  dollars,'  said  Dick,  his 
hands  in  his  pockets. 

Torpenhow  watched  him  "with  large  contempt.  'Why, 
I  thought  it  was  a  man ! '  said  he.     '  It's  a  child.' 

' No,  it  isn't,'  said  Dick,  wheeHng  quickly.  'You've  no 
notion  what  the  certainty  of  cash  means  to  a  man  who  has 
always  wanted  it  badly.  Nothing  will  pay  me  for  some 
of  my  life's  joys;  on  that  Chinese  pig-boat,  for  instance, 
when  we  ate  bread  and  jam  for  every  meal,  because  Ho- 
Wang  wouldn't  allow  us  anything  better,  and  it  all  tasted 
of  pig, — Chinese  pig.  I've  worked  for  this,  I've  sweated 
and  I've  starved  for  this,  line  on  line  and  month  after 
month.     And  now  I've  got  it  I  am  going  to  make  the 


S4  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAH^ED  chap. 

most  of  it  while  it  lasts.  Let  them  pay — they've  no 
knowledge.' 

'What  does  Your  Majesty  please  to  want?  You  can't 
smoke  more  than  you  do;  you  won't  drink;  you're  a  gross 
feeder;  and  you  dress  in  the  dark,  by  the  look  of  you. 
You  wouldn't  keep  a  horse  the  other  day  when  I  suggested, 
because,  you  said,  it  might  fall  lame,  and  whenever  you 
cross  the  street  you  take  a  hansom.  Even  you  are  not 
fooHsh  enough  to  suppose  that  theatres  and  all  the  live 
things  you  can  buy  thereabouts  mean  Life.  What  earthly 
need  have  you  for  money? ' 

'It's  there,  bless  its  golden  heart,'  said  Dick.  'It's 
there  all  the  time.  Providence  has  sent  me  nuts  while  I 
have  teeth  to  crack  'em  with.  I  haven't  yet  found  the 
nut  I  wish  to  crack,  but  I'm  keeping  my  teeth  filed. 
Perhaps  some  day  you  and  I  will  go  for  a  walk  round  the 
wide  earth.' 

With  no  work  to  do,  nobody  to  worry  us,  and  nobody 
to  compete  with?  You  would  be  unfit  to  speak  to  in  a 
week.  Besides,  I  shouldn't  go.  I  don't  care  to  profit  by 
the  price  of  a  man's  soul, — for  that's  what  it  would 
mean.     Dick,  it's  no  use  arguing.     You're  a  fool.' 

'Don't  see  it.  When  I  was  on  that  Chinese  pig-boat, 
our  captain  got  credit  for  saving  about  twenty-five 
thousand  very  seasick  Httle  pigs,  when  our  old  tramp  of  a 
steamer  fell  foul  of  a  timber-junk.  Now,  taking  those  pigs 
as  a  parallel ' 

'Oh,  confound  your  parallels!  Whenever  I  try  to  im- 
prove your  soul,  you  always  drag  in  some  anecdote  from 


IV  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  55 

your  very  shady  past.  Pigs  aren't  the  British  public ;  and 
self-respect  is  self-respect  the  world  over.  Go  out  for  a  walk, 
and  try  to  catch  some  self-respect.  And,  I  say,  if  the  Nil- 
ghai  comes  up  this  evening  can  I  show  him  your  diggings? ' 

'Surely.'  And  Dick  departed,  to  take  counsel  with 
himself  in  the  rapidly  gathering  London  fog. 

Half  an  hour  after  he  had  left,  the  Nilghai  laboured  up 
the  staircase.  He  was  the  chiefest,  as  he  was  the  hugest, 
of  the  war  correspondents,  and  his  experiences  dated  from 
the  birth  of  the  needle-gun.  Saving  only  his  ally,  Keneu 
the  Great  War  Eagle,  there  was  no  man  higher  in  the  craft 
than  he,  and  he  always  opened  his  conversation  with  the 
news  that  there  would  be  trouble  in  the  Balkans  in  the 
spring.     Torpenhow  laughed  as  he  entered. 

'Never  mind  the  trouble  in  the  Balkans.  Those  httle 
states  are  always  screeching.  You've  heard  about  Dick's 
luck?' 

'Yes;  he  has  been  called  up  to  notoriety,  hasn't  he?  I 
hope  you  keep  him  properly  humble.  He  wants  sup- 
pressing from  time  to  time.' 

'He  does.  He's  beginning  to  take  liberties  with  what 
he  thinks  is  his  reputation.' 

'  Already !  By  Jove,  he  has  cheek !  I  don't  know  about 
his  reputation,  but  he'll  come  a  cropper  if  he  tries  that 
sort  of  thing.' 

'  So  I  told  him.     I  don't  think  he  believes  it.' 

'  They  never  do  when  they  first  start  off.  What's  that 
wreck  on  the  ground  there? ' 

'Specimen  of   his   latest  impertinence.'     Torpenhow 


56  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  chap. 

thrust  the  torn  edges  of  the  canvas  together  and  showed 
the  well-groomed  picture  to  the  Nilghai,  who  looked  at  it 
for  a  moment  and  whistled. 

'It's  a  chromo,'  said  he, — 'a  chromo-litholeo-margarine 
fake!  What  possessed  him  to  do  it?  And  yet  how 
thoroughly  he  has  caught  the  note  that  catches  a  public 
who  think  with  their  boots  and  read  with  their  elbows! 
The  cold-blooded  insolence  of  the  work  almost  saves  it; 
but  he  mustn't  go  on  with  this.  Hasn't  he  been  praised 
and  cockered  up  too  much?  You  know  these  people  here 
have  no  sense  of  proportion.  They'll  call  him  a  second 
Detaille  and  a  third-hand  Meissonier  while  his  fashion 
lasts.     It's  windy  diet  for  a  colt.' 

'  I  don't  think  it  affects  Dick  much.  You  might  as  well 
call  a  young  wolf  a  Kon  and  expect  liim  to  take  the  com- 
pliment in  exchange  for  a  shin-bone.  Dick's  soul  is  in 
the  bank.     He's  working  for  cash.' 

'Now  he  has  thrown  up  war  work,  I  suppose  he  doesn't 
see  that  the  obhgations  of  the  service  are  just  the  same, 
only  the  proprietors  are  changed.' 

'How  should  he  know?  He  thinks  he  is  his  own 
master.' 

• '  Does  he?    I  could  undeceive  him  for  his  good,  if  there's 
any  virtue  in  print.     He  wants  the  whip-lash.' 

'Lay  it  on  with  science,  then.  I'd  flay  him  myself,  but 
I  like  him  too  much.' 

'I've  no  scruples.  He  had  the  audacity  to  try  to  cut 
me  out  with  a  woman  at  Cairo  once.  I  forgot  that,  but  I 
remember  now.' 


IV  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  57 

^Did  he  cut  you  out? ' 

'You'll  see  when  I  have  dealt  with  him.  But,  after  all, 
what's  the  good?  Leave  him  alone  and  he'll  come  home, 
if  he  has  any  stuff  in  him,  dragging  or  wagging  his  tail 
behind  him.  There's  more  in  a  week  of  life  than  in  a  lively 
weekly.  None  the  less  I'll  slate  him.  I'll  slate  him 
ponderously  in  the  Cataclysm.'' 

'  Good  luck  to  you ;  but  I  fancy  nothing  short  of  a  crow- 
bar would  make  Dick  wince.  His  soul  seems  to  have 
been  fired  before  we  came  across  him.  He's  intensely 
suspicious  and  utterly  lawless.' 

'Matter  of  temper,'  said  the  Nilghai.  'It's  the  same 
v/ith  horses.  Some  you  wallop  and  they  work,  some  you 
wallop  and  they  jib,  and  some  you  wallop  and  they  go  out 
for  a  walk  with  their  hands  in  their  pockets.' 

'That's  exactly  what  Dick  has  done,'  said  Torpenhow. 
'Wait  till  he  comes  back.  In  the  meantime,  you  can 
begin  your  slating  here.  I'll  show  you  some  of  his  last 
and  worst  work  in  his  studio.' 

Dick  had  instinctively  sought  running  water  for  a  com-, 
fort  to  his  mood  of  mind.  He  was  leaning  over  the  Em- 
bankment wall,  watching  the  rush  of  the  Thames  through 
the  arches  of  Westminster  Bridge.  He  began  by  thinking 
of  Torpenhow's  advice,  but,  as  of  custom,  lost  himself  in 
the  study  of  the  faces  flocking  past.  Some  had  death 
written  on  their  features,  and  Dick  marvelled  that  they 
could  laugh.  Others,  clumsy  and  coarse-built  for  the 
most  part,  were  alight  with  love;  others  were  merely 
drawn  and  lined  with  work;  but  there  was  something. 


S8  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  chap. 

Dick  knew,  to  be  made  out  of  them  all.  The  poor  at  least 
should  suffer  that  he  might  learn,  and  the  rich  should  pay 
for  the  output  of  his  learning.  Thus  his  credit  in  the 
world  and  his  cash  balance  at  the  bank  would  be  in- 
creased. So  much  the  better  for  him.  He  had  suffered. 
Now  he  would  take  toll  of  the  ills  of  others. 

The  fog  was  driven  apart  for  a  moment,  and  the  sun 
shone,  a  blood-red  wafer,  on  the  water.  Dick  watched 
the  spot  till  he  heard  the  voice  of  the  tide  between  the 
piers  die  down  like  the  wash  of  the  sea  at  low  tide.  A  girl 
hard  pressed  by  her  lover  shouted  shamelessly,  'Ah,  get 
away,  you  beast!'  and  a  shift  of  the  same  wind  that  had 
opened  the  fog  drove  across  Dick's  face  the  black  smoke 
of  a  river-steamer  at  her  berth  below  the  wall.  He  was 
blinded  for  the  moment,  then  spun  round  and  found  him- 
self face  to  face  with — Maisie. 

There  was  no  mistaldng.  The  years  had  turned  the 
child  to  a  woman,  but  they  had  not  altered  the  dark-gray 
eyes,  the  thin  scarlet  lips,  or  the  firmly  modelled  mouth 
and  chin;  and,  that  all  should  be  as  it  was  of  old,  she  wore 
a  closely  fitting  gray  dress. 

Since  the  human  soul  is  finite  and  not  in  the  least 
under  its  own  command,  Dick,  advancing,  said,  'Halloo!' 
after  the  manner  of  schoolboys,  and  Maisie  answered, 
'Oh,  Dick,  is  that  you?'  Then,  against  his  will,  and 
before  the  brain  newly  released  from  considerations  of  the 
cash  balance  had  time  to  dictate  to  the  ner\TS,  every 
pulse  of  Dick's  body  throbbed  furiously  and  his  palate 
dried  in  his  mouth.     The  fog  shut  down  again,  and 


IV  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  59 

Maisie's  face  was  pearl-white  through  it.  No  word  was 
spoken,  but  Dick  fell  into  step  at  her  side,  and  the  two 
paced  the  Embankment  together,  keeping  the  step  as 
perfectly  as  in  their  afternoon  excursions  to  the  mud- 
fiats.     Then  Dick,  a  Httle  hoarsely — 

'What  has  happened  to  Amomma?' 

*Ke  died,  Dick.  Not  cartridges;  over-eating.  He  was 
always  greedy.     Isn't  it  funny? ' 

'Yes.     No.     Do  you  mean  Amomma? ' 

'Ye — as.     No.     This.    Where  have  you  come  from?' 

'Over  there.'  He  pointed  eastward  through  the  fog. 
*And  you?' 

'Oh,  I'm  in  the  north, — the  black  north,  across  all  the 
Park.     I  am  very  busy.' 

'What  do  you  do?' 

' I  paint  a  great  deal.     That's  all  I  have  to  do.' 

'Why,  what's  happened?  You  had  three  hundred  a 
year. ' 

'I  have  that  still.     I  am  painting;  that's  all.' 

'Are  you  alone,  then?' 

'There's  a  girl  living  with  me.  Don't  walk  so  fast, 
Dick;  you're  out  of  step.' 

'Then  you  noticed  it  too?' 

'Of  course  I  did.     You're  always  out  of  step.' 

'  So  I  am.    I'm  sorry.    You  went  on  with  the  painting? ' 

'Of  course.  I  said  I  should.  I  was  at  the  Slade,  then 
at  Merton's  in  St.  -John's  Vv^ood,  the  big  studio,  then  I 
pepper-potted, — I  mean  I  went  to  the  National, — and 
now  I'm  working  under  Kami.' 


6o  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAH^ED  chap. 

'But  Kami  is  in  Paris  surely? ' 

'No;  he  has  his  teaching  studio  at  Vitry-sur-Marne.  I 
work  with  him  in  the  summer,  and  I  live  in  London  in  the 
winter.     I'm  a  householder.' 

'Do  you  sell  much?' 

'Now  and  again,  but  not  often.  There  is  my  'bus.  I 
must  take  it  or  lose  half  an  hour.     Good-bye,  Dick.' 

'Good-bye,  Maisie.  Won't  you  tell  me  where  you 
live?  I  must  see  you  again;  and  perhaps  I  could  help  you. 
I — I  paint  a  little  myself.' 

'  I  may  be  in  the  Park  to-morrow,  if  there  is  no  working 
light.  I  walk  from  the  Marble  Arch  down  and  back 
again;  that  is  my  little  excursion.  But  of  course  I  shall 
see  you  again.'  She  stepped  into  the  omnibus  and  was 
swallowed  up  by  the  fog. 

'Well — I — am — damned!'  exclaimed  Dick,  and  re- 
turned to  the  chambers. 

Torpenhow  and  the  Nilghai  found  him  sitting  on  the 
steps  to  the  studio  door,  repeating  the  phrase  with  an 
awful  gravity. 

'You'll  be  more  damned  when  I'm  done  with  you,'  said 
the  Nilghai,  upheaving  his  bulk  from  behind  Torpenhow' s 
shoulder  and  waving  a  sheaf  of  half-dry  manuscript. 
'Dick,  it  is  of  common  report  that  you  are  suffering 
from  swelled  head.' 

'Halloo,  Nilghai.  Back  again?  How  are  the  Balkans 
and  all  the  little  Balkans?  One  side  of  your  face  is  out  of 
drawing,  as  usual.' 

'Never  mind  that.     I  am  commissioned  to  smite  you  in 


IV  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  6i 

print.  Torpenhow  refuses  from  false  delicacy.  I've 
been  overhauling  the  pot-boilers  in  your  studio.  They 
are  simply  disgraceful.' 

'Oho!  that's  it,  is  it?  If  you  think  you  can  slate  me, 
you're  wrong.  You  can  only  describe,  and  you  need  as 
much  room  to  turn  in,  on  paper,  as  a  P.  and  O.  cargo- 
boat.     But  continue,  and  be  swift.     I'm  going  to  bed.' 

'H'm!  h'm  h'm!  The  first  part  only  deals  with  your 
pictures.  Here's  the  peroration : ''  For  work  done  without 
conviction,  for  power  wasted  on  triviahties,  for  labour  ex- 
pended with  levity  for  the  deliberate  purpose  of  winning 
the  easy  applause  of  a  fashion-driven  public "  ' 

'That's  "His  Last  Shot,"  second  edition.     Goon.' 

' "public,  there  remains  but  one  end, — the  oblivion 

that  is  preceded  by  toleration  and  cenotaphed  with  con- 
tempt. From  that  fate  Mr.  Heldar  has  yet  to  prove  him- 
self out  of  danger."' 

'  Wow — wow — wow — wow — wow  I '  said  Dick,  profanely. 
'It's  a  clumsy  ending  and  vile  journalese,  but  it's  quite 
true.  And  yet,' — he  sprang  to  his  feet  and  snatched  at 
the  manuscript, — 'you  scarred,  deboshed,  battered  old 
gladiator!  you're  sent  out  when  a  war  begins,  to  minister 
to  the  blind,  brutal,  British  public's  bestial  thirst  for 
blood.  They  have  no  arenas  now,  but  they  must  have 
special  correspondents.  You're  a  fat  gladiator  who 
comes  up  through  a  trap-door  and  talks  of  what  he's  seen. 
You  stand  on  precisely  the  same  level  as  an  energetic 
bishop,  an  affable  actress,  a  devastating  cyclone,  or — 
mine  own  sweet  self.    And  you  presume  to  lecture  me 


62  THE  LIGHT  TH.\T  FAILED  chap,  iv 

about  my  work!  Nilghai,  if  it  were  worth  wliile  I'd 
caricature  you  in  four  papers! ' 

The  Nilghai  winced.     He  had  not  thought  of  this. 

*As  it  is,  I  shall  take  this  stuff  and  tear  it  small — so!' 
The  manuscript  fluttered  in  slips  down  the  dark  well  of 
the  staircase.  'Go  home,  Nilghai,'  said  Dick;  'go  home 
to  your  lonely  Httle  bed,  and  leave  me  in  peace.  I  am 
about  to  turn  in  till  to-morrow.' 

'Why,  it  isn't  seven  yet! '  said  Torpenhow,  with  amaze- 
ment. 

'It  shall  be  tvv^o  in  the  morning,  if  I  choose,'  said  Dick, 
backing  to  the  studio  door.  '  I  go  to  grapple  with  a  serious 
crisis,  and  I  shan't  want  any  dinner.' 

The  door  shut  and  was  locked. 

'What  can  you  do  with  a  man  like  that?'  said  the 
Nilghai. 

'Leave  him  alone.     He's  as  mad  as  a  hatter.' 

At  eleven  there  was  a  kicking  on  the  studio  door.  'Is 
the  Nilghai  with  you  still?'  said  a  voice  from  within. 
'  Then  tell  him  he  might  have  condensed  the  whole  of  his 
lumbering  nonsense  into  an  epigram:  "Only  the  free  are 
bond,  and  only  the  bond  are  free."  Tell  him  he's  an 
idiot,  Torp,  and  tell  him  I'm  another.' 

'All  right.  Come  out  and  have  supper.  You're 
smoking  on  an  empty  stomach.' 

There  was  no  answer. 


CHAPTER  V 

'I  have  a  thousand  men,'  said  he, 

'To  wait  upon  my  will. 
And  towers  nine  upon  the  Tyne, 

And  three  upon  the  Till.' 

'And  what  care  I  for  your  men,'  said  she, 

'  Or  towers  from  Tyne  to  Till, 
Sith  you  must  go  with  me,'  she  said, 

'To  wait  upon  my  will? ' 

Sir  Hoggie  a?id  tJie  Fairies. 

Next  morning  Torpenhow  found  Dick  sunk  in  deepest 
repose  of  tobacco. 

'Well,  madman,  how  d'you  feel?' 

*I  don't  know.     I'm  trying  to  find  out.' 

*  You  had  much  better  do  some  work.' 

'Maybe;  but  I'm  in  no  hurry.  I've  made  a  discovery. 
Torp,  there's  too  much  Ego  in  my  Cosmos.' 

'Not  really!  Is  this  revelation  due  to  my  lectures,  or 
theNilghai's?' 

'It  came  to  me  suddenly,  all  on  my  own  account. 
Much  too  much  Ego;  and  now  I'm  going  to  work.' 

He  turned  over  a  few  half-finished  sketches,  drummed 
on  a  new  canvas,  cleaned  three  brushes,  set  Binkie  to  bite 

63 


64  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAH^ED  chap. 

the  toes  of  the  lay-figure,  rattled  through  his  collection  of 
arms  and  accoutrements,  and  then  went  out  abruptly, 
declaring  that  he  had  done  enough  for  the  day. 

'This  is  positively  indecent,'  said  Torpenhow,  'and  the 
first  time  that  Dick  has  ever  broken  up  a  light  morning. 
Perhaps  he  has  found  out  that  he  has  a  soul,  or  an  artistic 
temperament,  or  something  equally  valuable.  That 
comes  of  leaving  him  alone  for  a  month.  Perhaps  he  has 
been  going  out  of  evenings.  I  must  look  to  this.'  He 
rang  for  the  bald-headed  old  housekeeper,  whom  nothing 
could  astonish  or  annoy. 

'Beeton,  did  Mr.  Heldar  dine  out  at  all  wliile  I  was  out 
of  town? ' 

'Never  laid  'is  dress-clothes  out  once,  sir,  all  the  time. 
Mostly  'e  dined  in;  but  'e  brought  some  most  remarkable 
fancy  young  gentlemen  up  'ere  after  theatres  once  or 
twice.  Remarkable  fancy  they  was.  You  gentlemen  on 
the  top  floor  does  very  much  as  you  likes,  but  it  do  seem 
to  me,  sir,  droppin'  a  walkin'-stick  down  five  flights  o' 
stairs  an'  then  goin'  down  four  abreast  to  pick  it  up  again 
at  half -past  two  in  the  mornin',  singin'  "Bring  back  the 
whiskey,  Willie  darlin'," — not  once  or  twice,  but  scores  o' 
times, — isn't  charity  to  the  other  tenants.  What  I  say  is, 
"Do  as  you  would  be  done  by."     That's  my  motto.' 

*  Of  course !  of  course !  I'm  afraid  the  top  floor  isn't  the 
quietest  in  the  house.' 

'  I  make  no  complaints,  sir.  I  have  spoke  to  Mr.  Heldar 
friendly,  an'  he  laughed,  an'  did  me  a  picture  of  the  missis 
that  is  as  good  as  a  coloured  print.     It  'asn't  the  'igh 


V  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAH^ED  65 

shine  of  a  photograph,  but  what  I  say  is,  "Never  look  a 
gift-horse  in  the  mouth."  Mr.  Heldar's  dress-clothes 
'aven't  been  on  him  for  weeks.' 

'Then  it's  all  right,'  said  Torpenhow  to  himself. 
'Orgies  are  healthy,  and  Dick  has  a  head  of  his  own,  but 
when  it  comes  to  women  making  eyes  I'm  not  so  certain, 
— Binkie,  never  you  be  a  man,  Httle  dorglums.  They're 
contrary  brutes,  and  they  do  things  without  any  reason.' 

Dick  had  turned  northward  across  the  Park,  but  he 
was  walking  in  the  spirit  on  the  mud-flats  with  Maisie. 
He  laughed  aloud  as  he  remembered  the  day  when  he  had 
decked  Amomma's  horns  with  the  ham-frills,  and  Maisie, 
white  with  rage,  had  cuffed  him.  How  long  those  four 
years  seemed  in  review,  and  how  closely  Maisie  was 
connected  with  every  hour  of  them!  Storm  across  the 
sea,  and  Maisie  in  a  gray  dress  on  the  beach,  sweeping  her 
drenched  hair  out  of  her  eyes  and  laughing  at  the  home- 
ward race  of  the  fishing-smacks;  hot  sunshine  on  the  mud- 
flats, and  Maisie  sniffing  scornfully,  with  her  chin  in  the 
air;  Maisie  flying  before  the  wind  that  threshed  the  fore- 
shore and  drove  the  sand  like  small  shot  about  her  ears; 
Maisie,  very  composed  and  independent,  telhng  lies  to 
Mrs.  Jennett  while  Dick  supported  her  with  coarser 
perjuries;  Maisie  picking  her  way  dehcately  from  stone  to 
stone,  a  pistol  in  her  hand  and  her  teeth  firm-set;  and 
Maisie  in  a  gray  dress  sitting  on  the  grass  between  the 
mouth  of  a  cannon  and  a  nodding  yellow  sea-poppy.  The 
pictures  passed  before  him  one  by  one,  and  the  last  stayed 
the  longest.     Dick  was  perfectly  happy  with  a  quiet  peace 


66  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  chap. 

that  was  as  new  to  his  mind  as  it  was  foreign  to  his  ex- 
perience. It  never  occurred  to  him  that  there  might  be 
other  calls  upon  his  time  than  loafing  across  the  Park  in 
the  forenoon. 

'There's  a  good  working  light  now/  he  said,  watching 
his  shadow  placidly.  'Some  poor  devil  ought  to  he 
grateful  for  this.     And  there's  Maisie.' 

She  was  walking  towards  him  from  the  Marble  Arch, 
and  he  saw  that  no  mannerism  of  her  gait  had  been 
changed.  It  was  good  to  find  her  still  Maisie,  and,  so  to 
speak,  his  next-door  neighbour.  No  greeting  passed  be- 
tween them,  because  there  had  been  none  in  the  old  days. 

'What  are  you  doing  oat  of  your  studio  at  this  hour?' 
said  Dick,  as  one  who  was  entitled  to  ask. 

'Idling.  Just  idling.  I  got  angry  with  a  chin  and 
scraped  it  out.  Then  I  left  it  in  a  little  heap  of  paint- 
chips  and  came  away.' 

'I  know  what  palette-knifing  means.  What  was  the 
piccy? ' 

'A  fancy  head  that  wouldn't  come  right, — horrid 
thing!' 

'I  don't  like  working  over  scraped  paint  when  I'm 
doing  flesh.  The  grain  comes  up  woolly  as  the  paint 
dries.' 

'Not  if  you  scrape  properly.'  Maisie  waved  her  hand 
to  illustrate  her  methods.  There  was  a  dab  of  paint  on 
the  white  cuff.     Dick  laughed. 

'You're  as  untidy  as  ever.' 

'That  comes  well  from  you.     Look  at  your  own  cuff.' 


V  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  67 

'By  Jove,  yes!  It's  worse  than  yours.  I  don't  think 
we've  much  altered  in  anything.  Let's  see,  though.'  He 
looked  at  Maisie  critically.  The  pale  blue  ha7.e  of  an 
autumn  day  crept  between  the  tree-trunks  of  the  Park 
and  made  a  background  for  the  gray  dress,  the  black 
velvet  toque  above  the  black  hair,  and  the  resolute 
profile. 

'No,  there's  nothing  changed.  How  good  it  is!  D'you 
remember  when  I  fastened  your  hair  into  the  snap  of  a 
hand-bag? ' 

Maisie  nodded,  with  a  twinkle  in  her  eyes,  and  turned 
her  full  face  to  Dick. 

'Wait  a  minute,'  said  he.  'That  mouth  is  down  at  the 
corners  a  little.     Who's  been  worrying  you,  Maisie? ' 

'No  one  but  myself.  I  never  seem  to  get  on  with  my 
work,  and  yet  I  try  hard  enough,  and  Kami  says ' 

'  "Cojztinuez,  mesdemoiselles .  Continuez  toujours,  mes 
enfanis."     Kami  is  depressing.     I  beg  your  pardon.' 

'Yes,  that's  what  he  says.  He  told  me  last  sammer 
that  I  was  doing  better  and  he'd  let  me  exhibit  this  year.' 

'Not  in  this  place,  surely?' 

'  Of  course  not.     The  Salon.' 

'You  fly  high.' 

'I've  been  beating  my  wings  long  enough.  Where  do 
you  exhibit,  Dick? ' 

'I  don't  exhibit.     I  sell.' 

'What  is  your  line,  then?' 

'Haven't  you  heard?'  Dick's  eyes  opened.  Was  this 
thing  possible?     He  cast  about  for  some  means  of  con- 


68  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  chap. 

viction.     They  were  not  far  from   the   Marble  Arch. 
*  Come  up  Oxford  Street  a  little  and  I'll  show  you.' 

A  small  knot  of  people  stood  round  a  print-shop  that 
Dick  knew  well.  '  Some  reproduction  of  my  work  inside,' 
he  said,  with  suppressed  triumph.  Never  before  had  suc- 
cess tasted  so  sweet  upon  the  tongue.  *  You  see  the  sort 
of  things  I  paint.     D'you  like  it? ' 

Maisie  looked  at  the  wild  whirling  rush  of  a  field-bat- 
tery going  into  action  under  fire.  Two  artillerymen 
stood  behind  her  in  the  crowd. 

'They've  chucked  the  off  lead-'orse,'  said  one  to  the 
other.  *  'E's  tore  up  awful,  but  they're  makin'  good  time 
with  the  others.  That  lead-driver  drives  better  nor  you, 
Tom.     See  'ow  cunnin'  'e's  nursin'  is  'orse.' 

'Number  Three'll  be  off  the  limber,  next  jolt,'  was  the 
answer, 

'No,  'e  won't.  See  'ow  'is  foot's  braced  against  the 
iron?     'E's  all  right.' 

Dick  watched  Maisle's  face  and  swelled  with  joy — fine, 
rank,  vulgar  triumph.  She  was  more  interested  in  the 
little  crowd  than  in  the  picture.  That  was  something  that 
she  could  understand. 

'And  I  wanted  it  so!  Oh,  I  did  want  it  so! '  she  said  at 
last,  under  her  breath. 

'Me, — all  me!.'  said  Dick,  placidly  'Look  at  their 
faces.  It  hits  'em.  They  don't  know  what  makes  their 
eyes  and  mouths  open;  but  I  know.  And  I  know  my 
work's  right.' 

'  Yes.     I  see.     Oh,  what  a  thing  to  have  come  to  one !  * 


V  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  69 

*  Come  to  one,  indeed!  I  had  to  go  out  and  look  for  it. 
What  do  you  think? ' 

*  I  call  it  success.     Tell  me  how  you  got  it.' 

They  returned  to  the  Park,  and  Dick  dehvered  himself 
of  the  saga  of  his  own  doings,  with  all  the  arrogance  of  a 
young  man  speaking  to  a  woman.  From  the  beginning 
he  told  the  tale,  the  I — I — I's  flashing  through  the  records 
as  telegraph-poles  fly  past  the  traveller.  Maisie  Hstened 
and  nodded  her  head.  The  histories  of  strife  and  pri- 
vation did  not  move  her  a  hair's-breadth.  At  the  end  of 
each  canto  he  would  conclude,  'And  that  gave  me  some 
notion  of  handling  colour,'  or  light,  or  whatever  it  might 
be  that  he  had  set  out  to  pursue  and  understand.  He  led 
her  breathless  across  half  the  world,  speaking  as  he  had 
never  spoken  in  his  life  before.  And  in  the  flood-tide  of 
his  exaltation  there  came  upon  him  a  great  desire  to  pick 
up  this  maiden  who  nodded  her  head  and  said,  'I  under- 
stand. Go  on,' — to  pick  her  up  and  carry  her  away  with 
him,  because  she  was  Maisie,  and  because  she  understood, 
and  because  she  was  his  right,  and  a  woman  to  be  desired 
above  all  women. 

Then  he  checked  himself  abruptly.  'And  so  I  took  all 
I  wanted,'  he  said,  'and  I  had  to  fight  for  it.  Now  you 
ten.' 

Maisie's  tale  was  almost  as  gray  as  her  dress.  It 
covered  years  of  patient  toil  backed  by  savage  pride  that 
would  not  be  broken  though  dealers  laughed,  and  fogs 
delayed  work,  and  Kami  was  unkind  and  even  sarcastic, 
and  girls  in  other  studios  were  painfully  polite.     It  had  a 


70  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  chap. 

few  bright  spots,  in  pictures  accepted  at  provincial  ex^ 
hibitions,  but  it  wound  up  with  the  oft  repeated  wail, 
'And  so  you  see,  Dick,  I  had  no  success,  though  I  worked 
so  hard,' 

Then  pity  filled  Dick.  Even  thus  had  Maisie  spoken 
when  she  could  not  hit  the  breakwater,  half  an  hour  before 
she  had  kissed  him.     And  that  had  happened  yesterday. 

'Never  mind,'  he  said.  'I'll  tell  you  something,  if 
you'll  believe  it.'  The  words  were  shaping  themselves  of 
their  own  accord.  'The  whole  thing,  lock,  stock,  and 
barrel,  isn't  worth  one  big  yellow  sea-poppy  below  Fort 
Keeling.' 

Maisie  flushed  a  httle.  'It's  all  very  well  for  you  to 
talk,  but  you've  had  the  success  and  I  haven't.' 

'Let  me  talk,  then.  I  know  you'll  understand. 
Maisie,  dear,  it  sounds  a  bit  absurd,  but  those  ten  years 
never  existed,  and  I've  come  back  again.  It  really  is  just 
the  same.  Can't  you  see?  You're  alone  now  and  I'm 
alone.  What's  the  use  of  worrying?  Come  to  me  in- 
stead, darling.' 

Maisie  poked  the  gravel  with  her  parasol.  They  were 
sitting  on  a  bench.  'I  understand,'  she  said  slowly. 
'  But  I've  got  my  work  to  do,  and  I  must  do  it.' 

'  Do  it  with  me,  then,  dear.     I  won't  interrupt.' 

'  No,  I  couldn't.  It's  my  work, — mine, — mine, — mine ! 
I've  been  alone  all  my  life  in  myself,  and  I'm  not  going  to 
belong  to  anybody  except  myself.  I  remember  things  as 
well  as  you  do,  but  that  doesn't  count.  We  were  babies 
then,  and  we  didn't  know  what  was  before   us.      Dick, 


V  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAH^ED  71 

don't  be  selfish.     I  think  I  see  my  way  to  a  little  suc- 
cess next  year.     Don't  take  it  away  from  me.' 

'  I  beg  your  pardon,  darling.  It's  my  fault  for  speaking 
stupidly.  I  can't  expect  you  to  throw  up  all  your  hfe  just 
because  I'm  back.  I'll  go  to  my  own  place  and  wait  a 
little.' 

'But,  Dick,  I  don't  want  you  to — go — out  of — my  life, 
now  you've  just  come  back.' 

'I'm  at  your  orders;  forgive  me.'  Dick  devoured  the 
troubled  Httle  face  with  his  eyes.  There  was  triumph  in 
them,  beca,use  he  could  not  conceive  that  Maisie  should 
refuse  sooner  or  later  to  love  him,  since  he  loved  her. 

'It's  wrong  of  me,'  said  Maisie,  mxore  slowly  than  be- 
fore; 'it's  wrong  and  selfish;  but,  oh,  I've  been  so  lonely! 
No,  you  masunderstand.  Now  I've  seen  you  again,— it's 
absurd,  but  I  want  to  keep  you  in  my  life.' 

'Naturally.     We  belong.' 

'We  don't;  but  you  always  understood  me,  and  there  is 
so  much  in  my  work  that  you  could  help  me  in.  You 
know  things  and  the  ways  of  doing  things.     You  must.' 

'I  do,  I  fancy,  or  else  I  don't  know  myself.  Then  you 
won't  care  to  lose  sight  of  me  altogether,  and— you  want 
me  to  help  you  in  your  work? ' 

'Yes;  but  remem.ber,  Dick,  nothing  will  ever  come  of  it. 
That's  why  I  feel  so  selfish.  Can't  things  stay  as  they  are? 
I  do  want  your  help.' 

'  You  shall  have  it.  But  let's  consider.  I  must  see  your 
pics  first,  and  overhaul  your  sketches,  and  find  out  about 
your  tendencies.     You  should  see  what  the  papers  say 


72  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAHLED  chap. 

about  my  tendencies!  Then  I'll  give  you  good  advice, 
and  you  shall  paint  according.     Isn't  that  it,  Maisie? ' 

Again  there  was  triumph  in  Dick's  eye. 

'It's  too  good  of  you, — much  too  good.  Because  you 
are  consohng  yourself  with  what  will  never  happen,  and  I 
know  that,  and  yet  I  want  to  keep  you.  Don't  blame  me 
later,  please.' 

'I'm  going  into  the  matter  with  my  eyes  open.  More- 
over the  Queen  can  do  no  wrong.  It  isn't  your  selfishness 
that  impresses  me.  It's  your  audacity  in  proposing  to 
make  use  of  me.' 

' Pooh !     You're  only  Dick, — and  a  print-shop.' 

'Very  good:  that's  all  I  am.  But,  Maisie,  you  beHeve, 
don't  you,  that  I  love  you?  I  don't  want  you  to  have  any 
false  notions  about  brothers  and  sisters.' 

Maisie  looked  up  for  a  moment  and  dropped  her  eyes. 

'It's  absurd,  but — I  beHeve.  I  wish  I  could  send  you 
away  before  you  get  angry  with  me.  But — but  the  girl 
that  lives  with  me  is  red-haired,  and  an  impressionist,  and 
all  our  notions  clash.' 

*So  do  ours,  I  think.  Never  mind.  Three  months 
from  to-day  we  shall  be  laughing  at  this  together.' 

Maisie  shook  her  head  mournfully.  'I  knew  you 
wouldn't  understand,  and  it  will  only  hurt  you  more  when 
you  find  out.  Look  at  my  face,  Dick,  and  tell  me  what 
you  see.' 

They  stood  up  and  faced  each  other  for  a  moment.  The 
fog  was  gathering,  and  it  stifled  the  roar  of  the  traffic  of 
London  beyond  the  railings.     Dick  brought  all  his  pain- 


THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED 


73 


fully  acquired  knowledge  of  faces  to  bear  on  the  eyes, 
mouth,  and  chin  underneath  the  black  velvet  toque. 

'It's  the  same  Maisie,  and  it's  the  same  me,'  he  said. 
'We've  both  nice  little  wills  of  our  own,  and  one  or  other 
of  us  has  to  be  broken.  Now  about  the  future.  I  must 
come  and  see  your  pictures  some  day, — I  suppose  when 
the  red-haired  girl  is  on  the  premises.' 

'Sundays  are  my  best  times.  You  must  come  on 
Sundays.  There  are  such  heaps  of  things  I  want  to  talk 
about  and  ask  your  advice  about.  Now  I  must  get  back 
to  work.' 

'Try  to  find  out  before  next  Sunday  what  I  am,'  said 
Dick.  'Don't  take  my  word  for  anything  I've  told  you. 
Good-bye,  darling,  and  bless  you.' 

Maisie  stole  away  like  a  little  gray  mouse.  Dick 
watched  her  till  she  was  out  of  sight,  but  he  did  not  hear 
her  say  to  herself,  very  soberly,  'I'm  a  wretch, — a  horrid, 
selfish  wretch.     But  it's  Dick,  and  Dick  will  understand.' 

No  one  has  yet  explained  what  actually  happens  when 
an  irresistible  force  meets  the  immovable  post,  though 
many  have  thought  deeply,  even  as  Dick  thought.  He 
tried  to  assure  himself  that  Maisie  would  be  led  in  a  few 
weeks  by  his  mere  presence  and  discourse  to  a  better  way 
of  thinking.  Then  he  remembered  much  too  distinctly 
her  face  and  all  that  was  written  on  it. 

*If  I  know  anything  of  heads,'  he  said,  'there's  every- 
thing in  that  face  but  love.  I  shall  have  to  put  that  in  my- 
self; and  that  chin  and  mouth  won't  be  won  for  nothing. 
But  she's  right.     She  knows  what  she  wants,  and  she's 


74?  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  chap. 

going  to  get  it.  What  insolence !  Me !  Of  all  the  people 
in  the  wide  world,  to  use  me!  But  then  she's  Maisie. 
There's  no  getting  over  that  fact;  and  it's  good  to  see  her 
again.  This  business  must  have  been  simmering  at  the 
back  of  my  head  for  years.  .  .  .  She'll  use  me  as  I 
used  Binat  at  Port  Said.  She's  quite  right.  It  will  hurt 
a  httle.  I  shall  have  to  see  her  every  Sunday, — like  a 
young  man  courting  a  housemaid.  She's  sure  to  come 
round;  and  yet — that  mouth  isn't  a  yielding  mouth.  I 
shall  be  wanting  to  kiss  her  all  the  time,  and  I  shall  have 
to  look  at  her  pictures, — I  don't  even  know  what  sort  of 
work  she  does  yet, — and  I  shall  have  to  talk  about  Art, — 
Woman's  Art!  Therefore,  particularly  and  perpetually, 
damn  all  varieties  of  Art,  It  did  me  a  good  turn  once, 
and  now  it's  in  my  way.     I'll  go  home  and  do  some  Art.' 

Half-way  to  the  studio,  Dick  was  smitten  with  a  ter- 
rible thought.  The  figure  of  a  soHtary  woman  in  the 
fog  suggested  it. 

'She's  all  alone  in  London,  with  a  red-haired  impres- 
sionist girl,  who  probably  has  the  digestion  of  an  ostrich. 
Most  red-haired  people  have.  Maisie's  a  bilious  Httle 
body.  They'U  eat  like  lone  women, — meals  at  all  hours, 
and  tea  with  all  meals.  I  remember  how  the  students  in 
Paris  used  to  pig  along.  She  may  fall  ill  at  any  minute, 
and  I  shan't  be  able  to  help.  Whew!  this  is  ten  times 
worse  than  owning  a  wife.' 

Torpenhow  entered  the  studio  at  dusk,  and  looked  at 
Dick  with  eyes  full  of  the  austere  love  that  springs  up  be- 
tween men  who  have  tugged  at  the  same  oar  together  and 


V  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  75 

are  yoked  by  custom  and  use  and  the  intimacies  of  toil. 
This  is  a  good  love,  and,  since  it  allows,  and  even  en- 
courages, strife,  recrimination,  and  brutal  sincerity,  does 
not  die,  but  grows,  and  is  proof  against  any  absence  and 
evil  conduct. 

Dick  was  silent  after  he  handed  Torpenhow  the  filled 
pipe  of  council.  He  thought  of  Maisie  and  her  possible 
needs.  It  was  a  new  thing  to  think  of  anybody  but  Tor- 
penhow, who  could  think  for  himself.  Here  at  last  was  an 
outlet  for  that  cash  balance.  He  could  adorn  Maisie 
barbarically  with  jewellery, — a  thick  gold  necklace  round 
that  little  neck,  bracelets  upon  the  rounded  arms,  and 
rings  of  price  upon  her  hands, — the  cool,  temperate,  ring- 
less  hands  that  he  had  taken  between  his  own.  It  was  an 
absurd  thought,  for  Maisie  would  not  even  allow  him  to 
put  one  ring  on  one  finger,  and  she  would  laugh  at  golden 
trappings.  It  would  be  better  to  sit  with  her  quietly  in  the 
dusk,  his  arm  around  her  neck  and  her  face  on  his 
shoulder,  as  befitted  husband  and  wife.  Torpenhow's 
boots  creaked  that  night,  and  his  strong  face  jarred. 
Dick's  brows  contracted  and  he  murmured  an  evil  word 
because  he  had  taken  all  his  success  as  a  right  and  part 
payment  for  past  discomfort,  and  now  he  was  checked  in 
his  stride  by  a  woman  who  admitted  all  the  success  and 
did  not  instantly  care  for  him. 

'I  say,  old  man,'  said  Torpenhow,  who  had  made  one  or 
two  vain  attempts  at  conversation,  'I  haven't  put  your 
back  up  by  anything  I've  said  lately,  have  I? ' 

'  You !    No.     How  could  you? ' 


76  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  chap. 

'Liver  out  of  order? ' 

'The  truly  healthy  man  doesn't  know  he  has  a  liver. 
I'm  only  a  bit  worried  about  things  in  general.  I  suppose 
it's  my  soul.' 

'The  truly  healthy  man  doesn't  know  he  has  a  soul. 
What  business  have  you  with  luxuries  of  that  kind?' 

'  It  came  of  itself.  Who's  the  man  that  says  that  we're 
all  islands  shouting  Hes  to  each  other  across  seas  of  mis- 
understanding? ' 

'He's  right,  whoever  he  is, — except  about  the  mis- 
understanding. I  don't  think  we  could  misunderstand 
each  other.' 

The  blue  smoke  curled  back  from  the  ceiling  in  clouds. 
Then  Torpenhow,  insinuatingly — 

'Dick,  is  it  a  woman? ' 

'Be  hanged  if  it's  anything  remotely  resembling  a 
woman;  and  if  you  begin  to  talk  hke  that,  I'll  hire  a  red- 
brick studio  with  white  paint  trimmings,  and  begonias  and 
petunias  and  blue  Hungarias  to  play  among  three-and- 
sixpenny  pot-palms,  and  I'll  mount  aU  my  pics  in  anihne- 
dye  plush  plasters,  and  I'll  invite  every  woman  who 
maunders  over  what  her  guide-books  tell  her  is  Art,  and 
you  shall  receive  'em,  Torp, — in  a  snuff -brown  velvet  coat 
with  yeUow  trousers  and  an  orange  tie.     You'll  like  that? ' 

'Too  thin,  Dick.  A  better  man  than  you  once  denied 
with  cursing  and  swearing.  You've  overdone  it,  just  as 
he  did.  It's  no  business  of  mine,  of  course,  but  it's  com- 
forting to  think  that  somewhere  under  the  stars  there's 
saving  up  for  you  a  tremendous  thrashing.     Whether  it'll 


V  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAH^ED  77 

come  from  heaven  or  earth,  I  don't  know,  but  it's  bound 
to  come  and  break  you  up  a  little.  You  want  hammer- 
ing.' 

Dick  shivered .  '  All  right, '  said  he.  '  When  this  island 
is  disintegrated,  it  will  call  for  you.' 

'  I  shall  come  round  the  corner  and  help  to  disintegrate 
it  some  more.  We're  talking  nonsense.  Come  along  to 
a  theatre.' 


CHAPTER  VI 

'And  you  may  lead  a  thousand  men, 

Nor  ever  draw  the  rein, 
But  ere  ye  lead  the  Faery  Queen 

'Twill  burst  your  heart  in  twain.' 

He  has  slipped  his  foot  from  the  stirrup-bar, 

The  bridle  from  his  hand, 
And  he  is  bound  by  hand  and  foot 

To  the  Queen  o'  Faery-land. 

Sir  Hoggie  and  the  Fairies. 

Some  weeks  later,  on  a  very  foggy  Sunday,  Dick  was  re- 
turning across  the  Park  to  his  studio.  'This,'  he  said,  'is 
evidently  the  thrashing  that  Torp  meant.  It  hurts  more 
than  I  expected;  but  the  Queen  can  do  no  wrong;  and  she 
certainly  has  som.e  notion  of  drawing,' 

He  had  just  finished  a  Sunday  visit  to  Maisie, — always 
under  the  green  eyes  of  the  red-haired  impressionist  girl, 
whom  he  learned  to  hate  at  sight, — and  was  tingling  with 
a  keen  sense  of  shame.  Sunday  after  Sunday,  putting  on 
his  best  clothes,  he  had  walked  over  to  the  untidy  house 
north  of  the  Park,  first  to  see  Maisie's  pictures,  and  then 
to  criticise  and  advise  upon  them  as  he  realised  that  they 
were  productions  on  which  advice  would  not  be  wasted. 

78 


CHAP.  VI  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAH^ED  79 

Sunday  after  Sunday,  and  his  love  grew  with  each  visit, 
he  had  been  compelled  to  cram  his  heart  back  from  be- 
tween his  lips  when  it  prompted  him  to  kiss  Maisie 
several  times  and  very  much  indeed.  Sunday  after 
Sunday,  the  head  above  the  heart  had  warned  him  that 
Maisie  was  not  yet  attainable,  and  that  it  would  be  better 
to  talk  as  connectedly  as  possible  upon  the  mysteries  of 
the  craft  that  was  all  in  all  to  her.  Therefore  it  was  his 
fate  to  endure  weekly  torture  in  the  studio  built  out  over 
the  clammy  back-garden  of  a  frail  stuffy  Uttle  villa  where 
nothing  was  ever  in  its  right  place  and  nobody  ever  called, 
— to  endure  and  to  watch  Maisie  moving  to  and  fro  with 
the  teacups.  He  abhorred  tea,  but,  since  it  gave  him  a  ht- 
tle  longer  time  in  her  presence,  he  drank  it  devoutly,  and 
the  red-haired  girl  sat  in  an  untidy  heap  and  eyed  him 
without  speaking.  She  was  always  watching  him.  Once, 
and  only  once,  when  she  had  left  the  studio,  Maisie 
showed  him  an  album  that  held  a  few  poor  cuttings  from 
provincial  papers, — the  briefest  of  hurried  notes  on  some 
of  her  pictures  sent  to  outlying  exhibitions.  Dick  stooped 
and  kissed  the  paint-smudged  thumb  on  the  open  page. 
'Oh,  my  love,  my  love,'  he  muttered,  'do  you  value  these 
things?     Chuck  'em  into  the  waste-paper  basket! ' 

'Not  till  I  get  something  better,'  said  Maisie,  shutting 
the  book. 

Then  Dick,  moved  by  no  respect  for  his  public  and  a 
very  deep  regard  for  the  maiden,  did  dehberately  propose, 
in  order  to  secure  more  of  these  coveted  cuttings,  that  he 
should  paint  a  picture  which  Maisie  should  sign. 


8o  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  chap. 

'That's  childish,'  said  Maisie,  'and  I  didn't  think  it  of 
you.     It  must  be  my  work.     Mine, — mine, — mine ! ' 

'  Go  and  design  decorative  medallions  for  rich  brewers' 
houses.  You  are  thoroughly  good  at  that.'  Dick  was 
sick  and  savage. 

'Better  things  than  medallions,  Dick,'  was  the  answer, 
in  tones  that  recalled  a  gray-eyed  atom's  fearless  speech 
to  Mrs.  Jennett.  Dick  would  have  abased  himself  utterly, 
but  that  the  other  girl  trailed  in. 

Next  Sunday  he  laid  at  Maisie's  feet  small  gifts  of 
pencils  that  could  almost  draw  of  themselves  and  colours 
in  whose  permanence  he  believed,  and  he  was  ostenta- 
tiously attentive  to  the  work  in  hand.  It  demanded, 
among  other  things,  an  exposition  of  the  faith  that  was  in 
him.  Torpenhow's  hair  would  have  stood  on  end  had  he 
heard  the  fluency  with  which  Dick  preached  his  own 
gospel  of  Art. 

A  month  before,  Dick  would  have  been  equally 
astonished;  but  it  was  Maisie's  will  and  pleasure,  and  he 
dragged  his  words  together  to  make  plain  to  her  com- 
prehension all  that  had  been  hidden  to  himself  of  the  whys 
and  wherefores  of  work.  There  is  not  the  least  difl&culty 
in  doing  a  thing  if  you  only  know  how  to  do  it;  the  trouble 
is  to  explain  your  method. 

'  I  could  put  this  right  if  I  had  a  brush  in  my  hand,'  said 
Dick,  despairingly,  over  the  modelling  of  a  chin  that 
Maisie  complained  would  not  'look  flesh,' — it  was  the 
same  chin  that  she  had  scraped  out  with  the  palette-knife, 
— 'but  I  find  it  almost  impossible  to  teach  you.     There's 


VI  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAH^ED  8i 

a  queer  grim  Dutch  touch  about  your  painting  that  I  like; 
but  I've  a  notion  that  you're  weak  in  drawing.  You 
foreshorten  as  though  you  never  used  the  model,  and 
you've  caught  Kami's  pasty  way  of  deahng  with  flesh  in 
shadow.  Then,  again,  though  you  don't  know  it  your- 
self, you  shirk  hard  work.  Suppose  you  spend  some  of 
3^our  time  on  line  alone.  Line  doesn't  allow  of  shirking. 
Oils  do,  and  three  square  inches  of  flashy,  tricky  stuff  in 
the  corner  of  a  pic  sometimes  carry  a  bad  thing  off, — as  I 
know.  That's  immoral.  Do  line-work  for  a  little  while, 
and  then  I  can  tell  more  about  your  powers,  as  old  Kami 
used  to  say.' 

Maisie  protested:  she  did  not  care  for  the  pure 
hne. 

' I  know,'  said  Dick.  'You  want  to  do  your  fancy  heads 
with  a  bunch  of  flowers  at  the  base  of  the  neck  to  hide  bad 
modelling.'  The  red-haired  girl  laughed  a  Httle,  'You 
want  to  do  landscapes  with  cattle  knee-deep  in  grass  to 
hide  bad  drawing.  You  want  to  do  a  great  deal  more 
than  you  can  do.  You  have  sense  of  colour,  but  you 
want  form.  Colour's  a  gift, — put  it  aside  and  think  no 
more  about  it, — but  form  you  can  be  drilled  into.  Now, 
all  your  fancy  heads — and  some  of  them  are  very  good — 
will  keep  you  exactly  where  you  are.  With  Hne  you  must 
go  forward  or  backward,  and  it  will  show  up  all  your 
weaknesses.' 

'But  other  people '  began  Maisie. 

'You  mustn't  mind  what  other  people  do.  If  their 
souls  were  your  soul,  it  would  be  different.  You  stand  and 


82  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  chap. 

fall  by  your  own  work,  remember,  and  it's  waste  of  time 
to  think  of  any  one  else  in  this  battle.' 

Dick  paused,  and  the  longing  that  had  been  so  reso- 
lutely put  away  came  back  into  his  eyes.  He  looked  at 
Maisie,  and  the  look  asked  as  plainly  as  words,  Was  it  not 
time  to  leave  all  this  barren  wilderness  of  canvas  and 
counsel  and  join  hands  with  Life  and  Love? 

Maisie  assented  to  the  new  programme  of  schooling  so 
adorably  that  Dick  could  hardly  restrain  himself  from 
picking  her  up  then  and  there  and  carrying  her  off  to  the 
nearest  registrar's  office.  It  was  the  impHcit  obedience  to 
the  spoken  word  and  the  blank  indifference  to  the  un- 
spoken desire  that  baffled  and  buffeted  his  soul.  He  held 
authority  in  that  house, — authority  Hmited,  indeed,  to 
one-half  of  one  afternoon  in  seven,  but  very  real  while  it 
lasted.  Maisie  had  learned  to  appeal  to  him  on  many 
subjects,  from  the  proper  packing  of  pictures  to  the  con- 
dition of  a  smoky  chimney.  The  red-haired  girl  never 
consulted  him  about  anything.  On  the  other  hand,  she 
accepted  his  appearances  without  protest,  and  watched 
him  always.  He  discovered  that  the  meals  of  the  estab- 
Hshment  were  irregular  and  fragmentary.  They  de- 
pended chiefly  on  tea,  pickles,  and  biscuit,  as  he  had 
suspected  from  the  beginning.  The  girls  were  supposed 
to  market  week  and  week  about,  but  they  lived,  with  the 
help  of  a  charwoman,  as  casually  as  the  young  ravens. 
Maisie  spent  most  of  her  income  on  models,  and  the 
other  girl  revelled  in  apparatus  as  refined  as  her  work  was 
rough.     Armed  with  knowledge,  dear-bought  from  the 


VI  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  83 

Docks,  Dick  warned  Maisie  that  the  end  of  semi-star- 
vation meant  the  crippHng  of  power  to  work,  which  was 
considerably  worse  than  death.  Maisie  took  the  warning, 
and  gave  more  thought  to  what  she  ate  and  drank. 
When  his  trouble  returned  upon  him,  as  it  generally  did 
in  the  long  winter  twilights,  the  remembrance  of  that 
little  act  of  domestic  authority  and  his  coercion  with  a 
hearth-brush  of  the  smoky  drawing-room  chimney  stung 
Dick  Hke  a  whip-lash. 

He  conceived  that  this  memory  would  be  the  extreme 
of  his  sufferings,  till  one  Sunday  the  red-haired  girl  an- 
nounced that  she  would  make  a  study  of  Dick's  head,  and 
that  he  would  be  good  enough  to  sit  still,  and — quite  as 
an  afterthought — look  at  Maisie.  He  sat,  because  he 
could  not  well  refuse,  and  for  the  space  of  half  an  hour  he 
reflected  on  all  the  people  in  the  past  whom  he  had  laid 
open  for  the  purposes  of  his  own  craft.  He  remembered 
Binat  most  distinctly, — that  Binat  who  had  once  been  an 
artist  and  talked  about  degradation. 

It  was  the  merest  monochrome  roughing  in  of  a  head, 
but  it  presented  the  dumb  waiting,  the  longing,  and, 
above  all,  the  hopeless  enslavement  of  the  man,  in  a 
spirit  of  bitter  mockery. 

'I'll  buy  it,'  said  Dick,  promptly,  'at  your  own 
price.' 

'My  price  is  too  high,  but  I  dare  say  you'll  be  as  grate- 
ful if '     The  wet  sketch  fluttered  from  the  girl's  hand 

and  fell  into  the  ashes  of  the  studio  stove.  When  she 
picked  it  up  it  was  hopelessly  smudged. 


84  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  chap. 

'  Oh,  it's  all  spoiled ! '  said  Maisie.  *  And  I  never  saw  it. 
Was  it  like?' 

'Thank  you/  said  Dick  under  his  breath  to  the  red- 
haired  girl,  and  he  removed  himself  swiftly. 

'  How  that  man  hates  me ! '  said  the  girl.  '  And  how  he 
loves  you,  Maisie ! ' 

'What  nonsense!  I  know  Dick's  very  fond  of  me,  but 
he  has  his  work  to  do,  and  I  have  mine.' 

'Yes,  he  is  fond  of  you,  and  I  think  he  knows  there  is 
something  in  impressionism,  after  all.  Maisie,  can't  you 
see?' 

'See?     See  what? 

'Nothing;  only,  I  know  that  if  I  could  get  any  man  to 
look  at  me  as  that  man  looks  at  you,  I'd — I  don't  know 
what  I'd  do.     But  he  hates  me.     Oh,  how  he  hates  me!' 

She  was  not  altogether  correct.  Dick's  hatred  was 
tempered  with  gratitude  for  a  few  moments,  and  then  he 
forgot  the  girl  entirely.  Only  the  sense  of  shame  re- 
mained, and  he  was  nursing  it  across  the  Park  in  the  fog. 
'There'll  be  an  explosion  one  of  these  days,'  he  said  wrath- 
f uUy.  '  But  it  isn't  Maisie's  fault ;  she's  right,  quite  right, 
as  far  as  she  knows,  and  I  can't  blame  her.  This  business 
has  been  going  on  for  three  months  nearly.  Three 
months ! — and  it  cost  me  ten  years'  knocking  about  to  get 
at  the  notion,  the  merest  raw  notion,  of  my  work.  That's 
true;  but  then  I  didn't  have  pins,  drawing-pins,  and 
palette-knives,  stuck  into  me  every  Sunday.  Oh,  my 
Uttle  darling,  if  ever  I  break  you,  somebody  will  have  a 
very  bad  time  of  it.     No,  she  won't.     I'd  be  as  big  a  fool 


VI  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  85 

about  her  as  I  am  now.  I'll  poison  that  red-haired  girl  on 
my  wedding-day, — she's  unwholesome, — and  now  I'll 
pass  on  these  present  bad  times  to  Torp.' 

Torpenhow  had  been  moved  to  lecture  Dick  more  than 
once  lately  on  the  sin  of  levity,  and  Dick  had  listened  and 
replied  not  a  word.  In  the  weeks  between  the  first  few 
Sundays  of  his  discipline  he  had  flung  himself  savagely 
into  his  work,  resolved  that  Maisie  should  at  least  know 
the  full  stretch  of  his  powers.  Then  he  had  taught 
Maisie  that  she  must  not  pay  the  least  attention  to  any 
work  outside  her  own,  and  Maisie  had  obeyed  him  all  too 
well.  She  took  his  counsels,  but  was  not  interested  in 
his  pictures. 

'Your  things  smell  of  tobacco  and  blood,'  she  said  once. 
'Can't  you  do  anything  except  soldiers?' 

'I  could  do  a  head  of  you  that  would  startle  you,' 
thought  Dick, — this  was  before  the  red-haired  girl  had 
brought  him  under  the  guillotine, — but  he  only  said, 
*I  am  very  sorny%'  and  harrowed  Torpenhow's  soul  that 
evening  with  blasphemies  against  Art.  Later,  insensibly 
and  to  a  large  extent  against  his  own  will,  he  ceased  to  in- 
terest him.self  in  his  own  work.  For  Maisie's  sake,  and  to 
soothe  the  self-respect  that  it  seemed  to  him  he  lost  each 
Sunday,  he  would  not  consciously  turn  out  bad  stuff ,  but, 
since  Maisie  did  not  care  even  for  his  best,  it  were  better 
not  to  do  anything  at  all  save  wait  and  m^ark  time  between 
Sunday  and  Sunday.  Torpenhow  was  disgusted  as  the 
weeks  went  by  fruitless,  and  then  attacked  him  one  Sun- 
day evening  when  Dick  felt  utterly  exhausted  after  three 


86  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  chap. 

hours'  biting  self-restraint  in  Maisie's  presence.  There 
was  Language,  and  Torpenhow  withdrew  to  consult  the 
Nilghai,  who  had  come  in  to  talk  continental  politics. 

'Bone-idle,  is  he?  Careless,  and  touched  in  the  temper?' 
said  the  Nilghai.  'It  isn't  worth  worrying  over.  Dick 
is  probably  playing  the  fool  with  a  woman.' 

'Isn't  that  bad  enough?' 

'No.  She  may  throw  him  out  of  gear  and  knock  his 
work  to  pieces  for  a  while.  She  may  even  turn  up  here 
some  day  and  make  a  scene  on  the  staircase:  one  never 
knows.  But  until  Dick  speaks  of  his  own  accord  you  had 
better  not  touch  him.  He  is  no  easy-tempered  man  to 
handle.' 

'No;  I  wish  he  were.  He  is  such  an  aggressive,  cock- 
sure, you-be-damned  fellow.' 

'He'll  get  that  knocked  out  of  him  in  time.  He  must 
learn  that  he  can't  storm  up  and  down  the  world  with  a 
box  of  moist  tubes  and  a  slick  brush.  You're  fond  of 
him?' 

'I'd  take  any  punishment  that's  in  store  for  him  if  I 
could;  but  the  worst  of  it  is,  no  man  can  save  his  brother.* 

'  No,  and  the  worser  of  it  is,  there  is  no  discharge  in  this 
war.  Dickmustlearnhislessonlike  therestof  us.  Talk- 
ing of  war,  there'll  be  trouble  in  the  Balkans  in  the  spring.* 

'That  trouble  is  long  coming.  I  wonder  if  we  could 
drag  Dick  out  there  when  it  comes  off? ' 

Dick  entered  the  room  soon  afterwards,  and  the 
question  was  put  to  him.  'Not  good  enough,'  he  said 
shortly.     'I'm  too  comfy  where  I  am.' 


VI  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAH^ED  87 

'Surely  you  aren't  taking  all  the  stuff  in  the  papers 
seriously?'  said  the  Nilghai.  'Your  vogue  will  be  ended 
in  less  than  six  months, — the  public  will  know  your  touch 
and  go  on  to  something  new, — and  where  will  you  be 
then? ' 

'Here,  in  England.' 

'When  you  might  be  doing  decent  work  among  us  out 
there?  Nonsense!  I  shall  go,  the  Keneu  will  be  there, 
Torp  will  be  there,  Cassavetti  will  be  there,  and  the  whole 
lot  of  us  will  be  there,  and  we  shall  have  as  much  as  ever 
we  can  do,  with  unlimited  fighting  and  the  chance  for  you 
of  seeing  things  that  would  make  the  reputation  of  three 
Verestchagins.' 

'Um!'  said  Dick,  pulling  at  his  pipe. 

'You  prefer  to  stay  here  and  imagine  that  all  the  world 
is  gaping  at  your  pictures?  Just  think  how  full  an 
average  man's  life  is  of  his  own  pursuits  and  pleasures. 
When  twenty  thousand  of  him  find  time  to  look  up  be- 
tween mouthfuls  and  grunt  something  about  something 
they  aren't  the  least  interested  in,  the  net  result  is  called 
fame,  reputation,  or  notoriety,  according  to  the  taste  and 
fancy  of  the  speller  my  lord.' 

'I  know  that  as  well  as  you  do.  Give  me  credit  for  a 
little  gumption.' 

'Be  hanged  if  I  do!' 

^Be  hanged,  then;  you  probably  will  be, — for  a  spy,  by 
excited  Turks.  Heigh-ho!  I'm  weary,  dead  weary,  and 
virtue  has  gone  out  of  me.'  Dick  dropped  into  a  chair, 
and  was  fast  asleep  in  a  minute. 


88  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAH^ED  chap. 

'That's  a  bad  sign/  said  the  Nilghai,  in  an  undertone. 

Torpenhow  picked  the  pipe  from  the  waistcoat  where  it 
was  beginning  to  burn,  and  put  a  pillow  behind  the  head. 
'We  can't  help;  we  can't  help,'  he  said.  'It's  a  good  ugly 
sort  of  old  cocoanut,  and  I'm  fond  of  it.  There's  the 
scar  of  the  wipe  he  got  when  he  was  cut  over  in  the 
square.' 

'Shouldn't  wonder  if  that  has  made  him  a  trifle  mad.' 

'  I  should.     He's  a  most  businessHke  madman.' 

Then  Dick  began  to  snore  furiously. 

'Oh,  here,  no  affection  can  stand  this  sort  of  thing. 
Wake  up,  Dick,  and  go  and  sleep  somewhere  else,  if  you 
intend  to  make  a  noise  about  it.' 

'When  a  cat  has  been  out  on  the  tiles  all  night,'  said  the 
Nilghai,  in  his  beard,  'I  notice  that  she  usually  sleeps  all 
day.     This  is  natural  history.' 

Dick  staggered  away  rubbing  his  eyes  and  yawning.  In 
the  night-watches  he  was  overtaken  with  an  idea,  so 
simple  and  so  luminous  that  he  wondered  he  had  never 
conceived  it  before.  It  was  full  of  craft.  He  would  seek 
Maisie  on  a  week-day, — would  suggest  an  excursion,  and 
would  take  her  by  train  to  Fort  Keeling,  over  the  very 
ground  that  they  two  had  trodden  together  ten  years  ago. 

'As  a  general  rule,'  he  explained  to  his  chin-lathered 
reflection  in  the  morning,  'it  isn't  safe  to  cross  an  old 
trail  twice.  Things  remind  one  of  things,  and  a  cold 
wind  gets  up,  and  you  feel  sad;  but  this  is  an  exception  to 
every  rule  that  ever  was.     I'll  go  to  Maisie  at  once.' 

Fortunately,  the  red-haired  girl  was  out  shopping  when 


VI  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAD^ED  89 

he  arrived,  and  Maisie  in  a  paint-spattered  blouse  was 
warring  with  her  canvas.  She  was  not  pleased  to  see  him; 
for  week-day  visits  were  a  stretch  of  the  bond;  and  it 
needed  all  his  courage  to  explain  his  errand. 

'I  know  you've  been  working  too  hard,'  he  concluded, 
with  an  air  of  authority.  'If  you  do  that,  you'll  break 
down.     You  had  better  come.' 

'  Where? '  said  Maisie,  wearily.  She  had  been  standing 
before  her  easel  too  long,  and  was  very  tired. 

'Anywhere  you  please.  We'll  take  a  train  to-morrow 
and  see  where  it  stops.  We'll  have  lunch  somewhere,  and 
I'll  bring  you  back  in  the  evening.' 

'If  there's  a  good  working  Hght  to-morrow,  I  lose  a 
day.'  Maisie  balanced  the  heavy  white  chestnut  palette 
irresolutely. 

Dick  bit  back  an  oath  that  was  hurrying  to  his  lips.  He 
had  not  yet  learned  patience  with  the  maiden  to  whom 
her  work  was  all  in  all. 

'You'll  lose  ever  so  many  more,  dear,  if  you  use  every 
hour  of  working  Hght.  Overwork's  only  murderous  idle- 
ness. Don't  be  unreasonable.  I'U  caU  for  you  to-mor- 
row after  breakfast  early.' 

'But  surely  you  are  going  to  ask ' 

'  No,  I  am  not.  I  want  you  and  nobody  else.  Besides, 
she  hates  me  as  much  as  I  hate  her.  She  won't  care  to 
come.     To-morrow,  then ;  pray  that  we  get  sunshine.' 

Dick  went  away  dehghted,  and  by  consequence  did  no 
work  whatever.  He  strangled  a  wild  desire  to  order  a 
special  train,  but  bought  a  great  gray  kangaroo  cloak 


go  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAH^ED  chap. 

lined  with  glossy  black  marten,  and  then  retired  into 
himself  to  consider  things. 

'I'm  going  out  for  the  day  to-morrow  with  Dick/  said 
Maisie  to  the  red-haired  girl  when  the  latter  returned, 
tired,  from  marketing  in  the  Edgware  Road. 

'He  deserves  it.  I  shall  have  the  studio  floor  thoroughly 
scrubbed  while  you're  away.     It's  very  dirty.' 

Maisie  had  enjoyed  no  sort  of  hoKday  for  months  and 
looked  forward  to  the  Uttle  excitement,  but  not  without 
misgivings. 

'There's  nobody  nicer  than  Dick  when  he  talks 
sensibly,'  she  thought,  'but  I'm  sure  he'll  be  silly  and 
worry  me,  and  I'm  sure  I  can't  tell  him  anything  he'd  Hke 
to  hear.  If  he'd  only  be  sensible,  I  should  like  him  so 
much  better.' 

Dick's  eyes  were  full  of  joy  when  he  made  his  appear- 
ance next  morning  and  saw  Maisie,  gray-ulstered  and 
black- velvet-hatted,  standing  in  the  hallv/ay.  Palaces  of 
marble,  and  not  sordid  imitation  of  grained  wood,  were 
surely  the  fittest  background  for  such  a  divinity.  The 
red-haired  girl  drew  her  into  the  studio  for  a  moment  and 
kissed  her  hurriedly.  Maisie's  eyebrows  climbed  to  the 
top  of  her  forehead;  she  was  altogether  unused  to  these 
demonstrations.  'Mind  my  hat,'  she  said,  hurrying 
away,  and  ran  down  the  steps  to  Dick  waiting  by  the 
hansom. 

'Are  you  quite  warm  enough?  Are  you  sure  you 
wouldn't  like  some  more  breakfast?  Put  this  cloak  over 
your  knees.' 


VI  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  91 

'I'm  quite  comfy,  thanks.  Where  are  we  going, 
Dick?  Oh,  do  stop  singing  like  that.  People  will  think 
we're  mad.' 

'Let  'em  think, — if  the  exertion  doesn't  kill  them. 
They  don't  know  who  we  are,  and  I'm  sure  I  don't  care 
who  they  are.     My  faith,  Maisie,  you're  looking  lovely! ' 

Maisie  stared  directly  in  front  of  her  and  did  not  reply. 
The  wind  of  a  keen  clear  winter  morning  had  put  colour 
into  her  cheeks.  Overhead,  the  creamy-yellow  smoke- 
clouds  were  thinning  away  one  by  one  against  a  pale-blue 
sky,  and  the  improvident  sparrows  broke  off  from  water- 
spout committees  and  cab-rank  cabals  to  clamour  of  the 
coming  of  spring. 

'  It  will  be  lovely  weather  in  the  country,'  said  Dick. 

'  But  where  are  we  going? ' 

'Wait  and  see.' 

They  stopped  at  Victoria,  and  Dick  sought  tickets. 
For  less  than  half  the  fraction  of  an  instant  it  occurred 
to  Maisie,  comfortably  settled  by  the  waiting-room  fire, 
that  it  was  much  more  pleasant  to  send  a  man  to  the 
booking-office  than  to  elbow  one's  way  through  the  crowd. 
Dick  put  her  into  a  Pullman, — solely  on  account  of  the 
warmth  there;  and  she  regarded  the  extravagance  with 
grave  scandalised  eyes  as  the  train  moved  out  into  the 
country. 

'  I  wish  I  knew  where  we  are  going,'  she  repeated  for  the 
twentieth  time.  The  name  of  a  well-remembered  station 
flashed  by,  towards  the  end  of  the  run,  and  Maisie  was 
enHghtened. 


92  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  chap. 

'Oh,  Dick,  you  villain!' 

'Well,  I  thought  you  might  like  to  see  the  place  again. 
You  haven't  been  here  since  old  times,  have  you? ' 

'No.  I  never  cared  to  see  Mrs.  Jennett  again;  and  she 
was  all  that  was  ever  there.' 

'Not  quite.  Look  out  a  minute.  There's  the  wind- 
mill above  the  potato-fields;  they  haven't  built  villas 
there  yet;  d'you  remember  when  I  shut  you  up  in  it? ' 

'Yes.  How  she  beat  you  for  it!  I  never  told  it  was 
you.' 

'She  guessed.  I  jammed  a  stick  under  the  door  and 
told  you  that  I  was  burying  Amomma  aHve  in  the  pota- 
toes, and  you  beheved  me.  You  had  a  trusting  nature  in 
those  days.' 

They  laughed  and  leaned  to  look  out,  identifying 
ancient  landmarks  with  many  reminiscences.  Dick  fixed 
his  weather  eye  on  the  curve  of  Maisie's  cheek,  very 
near  his  own,  and  watched  the  blood  rise  under  the 
clear  skin.  He  congratulated  himself  upon  his  cun- 
ning, and  looked  that  the  evening  would  bring  him  a  great 
reward. 

When  the  train  stopped  they  went  out  to  look  at  an  old 
town  with  new  eyes.  First,  but  from  a  distance,  they  re- 
garded the  house  of  Mrs.  Jennett. 

'Suppose  she  should  come  out  now,  what  would  you 
do? '  said  Dick,  with  mock  terror. 

'I  should  make  a  face.' 

'Show,  then,'  said  Dick,  dropping  into  the  speech  of 
childhood. 


VI  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  93 

Maisie  made  that  face  in  the  direction  of  the  mean  little 
villa,  and  Dick  laughed. 

'"This  is  disgraceful,"'  said  Maisie,  mimicking  Mrs. 
Jennett's  tone.  '"Maisie,  you  run  in  at  once,  and  learn 
the  collect,  gospel,  and  epistle  for  the  next  three  Sundays. 
After  all  I've  taught  you,  too,  and  three  helps  every 
Sunday  at  dinner!  Dick's  always  leading  you  into  mis- 
chief. If  you  aren't  a  gentleman,  Dick,  you  might  at 
least—'" 

The  sentence  ended  abruptly.  Maisie  remembered 
when  it  had  last  been  used. 

'"Try  to  behave  Hke  one,"'  said  Dick,  promptly. 
'Quite  right.  Now  we'll  get  some  lunch  and  go  on  to 
Fort  Keeling, — unless  you'd  rather  drive  there? ' 

'  We  must  walk,  out  of  respect  to  the  place.  How  little 
changed  it  all  is ! ' 

They  turned  in  the  direction  of  the  sea  through  un- 
altered streets,  and  the  influence  of  old  things  lay  upon 
them.  Presently  they  passed  a  confectioner's  shop  much 
considered  in  the  days  when  their  joint  pocket-money 
amounted  to  a  shiUing  a  week. 

'Dick,  have  you  any  pennies? '  said  Maisie,  half  to  her- 
self. 

'Only  three;  and  if  you  think  you're  going  to  have  two 
of  'em  to  buy  peppermints  with,  you're  wrong.  She  says 
peppermints  aren't  ladylike.' 

Again  they  laughed,  and  again  the  colour  came  into 
Maisie's  cheeks  as  the  blood  boiled  through  Dick's  heart. 
After  a  large  lunch  they  went  down  to  the  beach  and  to 


94  *  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  chap. 

Fort  Keeling  across  the  waste,  wind-bitten  land  that  no 
builder  had  thought  it  worth  his  while  to  defile.  The 
winter  breeze  came  in  from  the  sea  and  sang  about  their 
ears. 

'Maisie/  said  Dick,  'your  nose  is  getting  a  crude 
Prussian  blue  at  the  tip.  I'll  race  you  as  far  as  you 
please  for  as  much  as  you  please.' 

She  looked  round  cautiously,  and  with  a  laugh  set  off, 
swiftly  as  the  ulster  allowed,  till  she  was  out  of  breath. 

*We  used  to  run  miles/  she  panted.  'It's  absurd  that 
we  can't  run  now.' 

'  Old  age,  dear.  This  it  is  to  get  fat  and  sleek  in  town. 
When  I  wished  to  pull  your  hair  you  generally  ran  for 
three  miles,  shrieking  at  the  top  of  your  voice.  I  ought  to 
know,  because  those  shrieks  were  meant  to  call  up  Mrs. 
Jennett  with  a  cane  and ' 

'Dick,  I  never  got  you  a  beating  on  purpose  in  my  Hfe.' 

'No,  of  course  you  never  did.  Good  heavens!  look  at 
the  sea.' 

'Why,  it's  the  same  as  ever!'  said  Maisie. 

Torpenhow  had  gathered  from  Mr.  Beeton  that  Dick, 
properly  dressed  and  shaved,  had  left  the  house  at  half- 
past  eight  in  the  morning  with  a  travelhng-rug  over  his 
arm.  The  Nilghai  rolled  in  at  mid-day  for  chess  and 
polite  conversation. 

'It's  worse  than  anything  I  imagined,'  said  Torpenhow. 

'Oh,  the  everlasting  Dick,  I  suppose!  You  fuss  over 
him  like  a  hen  with  one  chick.     Let  him  run  riot  if  he 


VI 


THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  95 


thinks  it'll  amuse  him.  You  can  whip  a  young  pup  off 
feather,  but  you  can't  whip  a  young  man.' 

'  It  isn't  a  woman.     It's  one  woman;  and  it's  a  girl.' 

'Where's  your  proof? ' 

*He  got  up  and  went  out  at  eight  this  morning, — got  up 
in  the  middle  of  the  night,  by  Jove!  a  thing  he  never  does 
except  when  he's  on  service.  Even  then,  remember,  we 
had  to  kick  him  out  of  his  blankets  before  the  fight  began 
at  El-Maghrib.     It's  disgusting.' 

' It  looks  odd;  but  maybe  he's  decided  to  buy  a  horse  at 
last.     He  might  get  up  for  that,  mightn't  he? ' 

'Buy  a  blazing  wheelbarrow!  He'd  have  told  us  if 
there  was  a  horse  in  the  wind.     It's  a  girl.' 

'Don't  be  certain.  Perhaps  it's  only  a  married 
woman.' 

'Dick  has  some  sense  of  humour,  if  you  haven't.  Who 
gets  up  in  the  gray  dawn  to  call  on  another  man's  wife? 
It's  a  girl.' 

'Let  it  be  a  girl,  then.  She  may  teach  him  that  there's 
somebody  else  in  the  world  besides  himself.' 

'She'll  spoil  his  hand.  She'll  waste  his  time,  and  she'll 
marry  him,  and  ruin  his  work  for  ever.  He'll  be  a  respect- 
able married  man  before  we  can  stop  him,  and — he'U 
never  go  on  the  long  trail  again.' 

'All  quite  possible,  but  the  earth  won't  spin  the  other 
way  when  it  happens.  .  .  .  Ho!  ho!  I'd  give  some- 
thing to  see  Dick  "go  wooing  with  the  boys."  Don't 
worry  about  it.  These  things  be  with  Allah,  and  we  can 
only  look  on.     Get  the  chessmen.' 


96  THE  LIGHT  TH.\T  FAILED  chap,  vi 

The  red-haired  girl  was  lying  down  in  her  own  room, 
staring  at  the  ceiling.  The  footsteps  of  people  on  the 
pavement  sounded,  as  they  grew  indistinct  in  the  distance, 
like  a  many-times-repeated  kiss  that  was  all  one  long  kiss. 
Her  hands  were  by  her  side,  and  they  opened  and  shut 
savagely  from  time  to  time. 

The  charwoman  in  charge  of  the  scrubbing  of  the 
studio  knocked  at  her  door:  'Beg  y'  pardon,  miss,  but  in 
cleanin'  of  a  floor  there's  two,  not  to  say  three,  kind  of 
soap,  which  is  yaller,  an'  mottled,  an'  disinfectink.  Now, 
jist  before  I  took  my  pail  into  the  passage  I  thought  it 
would  be  pre'aps  jest  as  well  if  I  was  to  come  up  'ere  an' 
ask  you  what  sort  of  soap  you  was  wishful  that  I  should 
use  on  them  boards.     The  yaller  soap,  miss ' 

There  was  nothing  in  the  speech  to  have  caused  the 
paroxysm  of  fury  that  drove  the  red-haired  girl  into  the 
middle  of  the  room,  almost  shouting — 

'Do  you  suppose  /  care  what  you  use?  Any  kind  will 
do ! — any  kind ! ' 

The  woman  fled,  and  the  red-haired  girl  looked  at  her 
own  reflection  in  the  glass  for  an  instant  and  covered  her 
face  with  her  hands.  It  was  as  though  she  had  shouted 
some  shameless  secret  aloud. 


CHAPTER  VII 

Roses  red  and  roses  white 
Plucked  I  for  my  love's  delight. 
She  would  none  of  aU  my  posies, — 
Bade  me  gather  her  blue  roses. 

Half  the  world  I  wandered  through, 
Seeking  where  such  flowers  grew;  » 

Half  the  world  unto  my  quest 
Answered  with  but  laugh  and  jest. 

It  may  be  beyond  the  grave 

She  shall  find  what  she  would  have. 

Mine  was  but  an  idle  quest, — 

Roses  white  and  red  are  best! — Blue  Roses. 

The  sea  had  not  changed.  Its  waters  were  low  on  the 
mud-banks,  and  the  Marazion  Bell-buoy  clanked  and 
swung  in  the  tide-way.  On  the  white  beach-sand  dried 
stumps  of  sea-poppy  shivered  and  chattered. 

'I  don't  see  the  old  breakwater,'  said  Maisie,  under  her 
breath. 

*  Let's  be  thankful  that  we  have  as  much  as  we  have.  I 
don't  beUeve  they've  mounted  a  single  new  gun  on  the 
fort  since  we  were  here.     Come  and  look.' 

They  came  to  the  glacis  of  Fort  KeeUng,  and  sat  down 

97 


98  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  chap. 

in  a  nook  sheltered  from  the  wind  under  the  tarred  throat 
of  a  forty-pounder  cannon. 

'Now,  if  Amomma  were  only  here! '  said  Maisie. 

For  a  long  time  both  were  silent.  Then  Dick  took 
Maisie's  hand  and  called  her  by  her  name. 

She  shook  her  head  and  looked  out  to  sea. 

'Maisie,  darhng,  doesn't  it  make  any  difference?' 

'No!'  between  clenched  teeth.  'I'd — I'd  tell  you  if  it 
did;  but  it  doesn't.     Oh,  Dick,  please  be  sensible.' 

'Don't  you  think  that  it  ever  will?' 

'No,  I'm  sure  it  won't.' 

'Why?' 

Maisie  rested  her  chin  on  her  hand,  and,  still  regarding 
the  sea,  spoke  hurriedly — 

'I  know  what  you  want  perfectly  well,  but  I  can't 
give  it  you,  Dick.     It  isn't  my  fault;  indeed,  it  isn't.     If 

I  felt  that  I  could  care  for  any  one But  I  don't  feel 

that  I  care.  I  simply  don't  understand  what  the  feeling 
means.' 

'  Is  that  true,  dear? ' 

'You've  been  very  good  to  me,  Dickie;  and  the  only 
way  I  can  pay  you  back  is  by  speaking  the  truth.  I 
daren't  tell  a  fib.     I  despise  myself  quite  enough  as  it  is.' 

'  What  in  the  world  for? ' 

'Because— because  I  take  everything  that  you  give  me 
and  I  give  you  nothing  in  return.  It's  mean  and  selfish  of 
me,  and  whenever  I  think  of  it  it  worries  me.' 

'Understand  once  for  all,  then,  that  I  can  manage  my 
own  affairs,  and  if  I  choose  to  do  any  tiling  you  aren't  to 


vn  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  99 

blame.  You  haven't  a  single  thing  to  reproach  yourself 
with,  darling.' 

'Yes,  I  have,  and  talking  only  makes  it  worse.' 

'Then  don't  talk  about  it.' 

'How  can  I  help  myself?  If  you  find  me  alone  for  a 
minute  you  are  always  talking  about  it;  and  when  you 
aren't  you  look  it.  You  don't  know  how  I  despise  myself 
sometimes.' 

'  Great  goodness!'  said  Dick,  nearly  jumping  to  his  feet. 
'Speak  the  truth  now,  Maisie,  if  you  never  speak  it  again! 
Do  I — does  this  v/orr}dng  bore  you? ' 

'No.     It  does  not.' 

'You'd  tell  me  if  it  did?' 

'I  should  let  you  know,  I  think.' 

'  Thank  you.  The  other  thing  is  fatal.  But  you  must 
learn  to  forgive  a  man  when  he's  in  love.  He's  always  a 
nuisance.     You  must  have  known  that? ' 

Maisie  did  not  consider  the  last  question  worth  answer- 
ing, and  Dick  was  forced  to  repeat  it. 

'There  were  other  men,  of  course.  They  always 
worried  just  when  I  was  in  the  middle  of  my  work,  and 
wanted  me  to  listen  to  them.' 

'Did  you  listen?' 

'At  first;  and  they  couldn't  understand  why  I  didn't 
care.  And  they  used  to  praise  my  pictures ;  and  I  thought 
they  meant  it.  I  used  to  be  proud  of  the  praise,  and  tell 
Kami,  and — I  shall  never  forget — once  Kami  laughed  at 
me.' 

'You  don't  like  being  laughed  at,  Maisie,  do  you? ' 


loo  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAH^ED  chap. 

'  I  hate  it.  I  never  laugh  at  other  people  unless — unless 
they  do  bad  work.  Dick,  tell  me  honestly  what  you 
think  of  my  pictures  generally, — of  everything  of  mine 
that  you've  seen.' 

"'Honest,  honest,  and  honest  over!'"  quoted  Dick 
from  a  catchword  of  long  ago.  'Tell  me  what  Kami 
always  says.' 

Maisie  hesitated.  'He — he  says  that  there  is  feeling  in 
them.' 

'  How  dare  you  tell  me  a  fib  like  that?  Rem.ember,  I  was 
under  Kami  for  two  years.     I  know  exactly  what  he  says.' 

'It  isn't  a  fib.' 

' It's  worse;  it's  a  half-truth.  Kami  says,  when  he  puts 
his  head  on  one  side, — so, — "//  y  a  du  sentiment,  mats  il 
n'y  a  pas  de  parti  pris."^  He  rolled  the  r  threateningly, 
as  Kami  used  to  do. 

'Yes,  that  is  what  he  says;  and  I'm  beginning  to  think 
that  he  is  right.' 

'Certainly  he  is.'  Dick  admitted  that  two  people  in 
the  world  could  do  and  say  no  wrong.  Kami  was  the 
man. 

'And  now  you  say  the  same  thing.  It's  so  dishearten- 
ing.' 

'I'm  sorry,  but  you  asked  me  to  speak  the  truth. 
Besides,  I  love  you  too  much  to  pretend  about  your 
work.  It's  strong,  it's  patient  sometimes, — not  always, 
— and  sometimes  there's  power  in  it,  but  there's  no 
special  reason  why  it  should  be  done  at  all.  At  least, 
that's  how  it  strikes  me.' 


vn 


THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  loi 


'There's  no  special  reason  why  anything  in  the  world 
should  ever  be  done.  You  know  that  as  well  as  I  do.  I 
only  want  success.' 

'You're  going  the  wrong  way  to  get  it,  then.  Hasn't 
Kami  ever  told  you  so? ' 

'Don't  quote  Kami  to  me.  I  want  to  know  what  you 
think.     My  work's  bad,  to  begin  with.' 

'  I  didn't  say  that,  and  I  don't  think  it.' 

'It's  amateurish,  then.' 

'  That  it  most  certainly  is  not.  You're  a  work-woman, 
darling,  to  your  boot-heels,  and  I  respect  you  for  that.' 

'  You  don't  laugh  at  me  behind  my  back? ' 

'No,  dear.  You  see,  you  are  more  to  me  than  any  one 
else.  Put  this  cloak  thing  round  you,  or  you'll  get 
chilled.' 

Maisie  wrapped  herself  in  the  soft  marten  skins,  turning 
the  gray  kangaroo  fur  to  the  outside. 

"This  is  delicious,'  she  said,  rubbing  her  chin  thought- 
fully along  the  fur.  'Well?  Why  am  I  wrong  in  trying 
to  get  a  little  success? ' 

'  Just  because  you  try.  Don't  you  understand,  darHng? 
Good  work  has  nothing  to  do  with — doesn't  belong  to — 
the  person  who  does  it.  It's  put  into  him  or  her  from 
outside.' 

'But  how  does  that  affect ' 

'Wait  a  minute.  All  we  can  do  is  to  learn  how  to  do 
our  work,  to  be  masters  of  our  materials  instead  of  serv- 
ants, and  never  to  be  afraid  of  anything.' 

'I  understand  that.' 


I02  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  chap. 

'Everything  else  comes  from  outside  ourselves.  Very 
good.  If  we  sit  down  quietly  to  work  out  notions  that 
are  sent  to  us,  we  may  or  we  may  not  do  something  that 
isn't  bad.  A  great  deal  depends  on  being  master  of  the 
bricks  and  mortar  of  the  trade.  But  the  instant  we  begin 
to  think  aboat  success  and  the  effect  of  our  work — to  play 
with  one  eye  on  the  gallery — we  lose  power  and  touch  and 
everything  else.  At  least  that's  how  I  have  found  it.  In- 
stead of  being  quiet  and  giving  every  power  you  possess  to 
your  work,  you're  fretting  over  something  which  you 
can  neither  help  nor  hinder  by  a  minute.     See? ' 

'  It's  so  easy  for  you  to  talk  in  that  way.  People  like 
what  you  do.     Don't  you  ever  think  about  the  gaUery? ' 

'Much  too  often;  but  I'm  always  punished  for  it  by  loss 
of  power.  It's  as  simple  as  the  Rule  of  Three.  If  we 
make  light  of  our  work  by  using  it  for  our  own  ends,  our 
work  will  make  hght  of  us,  and,  as  we're  the  weaker,  we 
shall  suffer.' 

'I  don't  treat  my  work  lightly.  You  know  that  it's 
everything  to  me.' 

'Of  course;  but,  whether  you  realise  it  or  not,  you  give 
two  strokes  for  yourself  to  one  for  your  work.  It  isn't 
your  fault,  darUng.  I  do  exactly  the  same  thing,  and 
know  that  I'm  doing  it.  Most  of  the  French  schools,  and 
all  the  schools  here,  drive  the  students  to  work  for  their 
own  credit,  and  for  the  sake  of  their  pride.  I  was  told 
that  all  the  world  was  interested  in  my  work,  and  every- 
body at  Kami's  talked  turpentine,  and  I  honestly  believed 
that  the  world  needed  elevating  and  influencing,  and  all 


vn  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAH^ED  103 

manner  of  impertinences,  by  my  brushes.  By  Jove,  I 
actually  believed  that!  When  my  little  head  was  burst- 
ing with  a  notion  that  I  couldn't  handle  because  I  hadn't 
sufficient  knowledge  of  my  craft,  I  used  to  run  about 
wondering  at  my  own  magnificence  and  getting  ready  to 
astonish  the  world.' 

'But  surely  one  can  do  that  sometimes? ' 

'Very  seldom  with  malice  aforethought,  darling.  And 
when  it's  done  it's  such  a  tiny  thing,  and  the  world's  so 
big,  and  all  but  a  milHonth  part  of  it  doesn't  care. 
Maisie,  come  with  me  and  I'll  show  you  something  of  the 
size  of  the  world.  One  can  no  more  avoid  working  than 
eating, — that  goes  on  by  itself, — but  try  to  see  what  you 
are  working  for.  I  know  such  Httle  heavens  that  I  could 
take  you  to, — islands  tucked  away  under  the  Line.  You 
sight  them  after  weeks  of  crashing  through  water  as  black 
as  black  marble  because  it's  so  deep,  and  you  sit  in  the 
fore-chains  day  after  day  and  see  the  sun  rise  almost 
afraid  because  the  sea's  so  lonely.' 

'Who  is  afraid? — you,  or  the  sun? ' 

'The  sun,  of  course.  And  there  are  noises  under  the 
sea,  and  sounds  overhead  in  a  clear  sky.  Then  you  find 
your  island  aHve  with  hot  moist  orchids  that  make 
mouths  at  you  and  can  do  everything  except  talk.  There's 
a  waterfall  in  it  three  hundred  feet  high,  just  like  a  sHver 
of  green  jade  laced  with  silver;  and  millions  of  wild  bees 
live  up  in  the  rocks;  and  you  hear  the  fat  cocoanuts  falling 
from  the  palms ;  and  you  order  an  ivory-white  servant  to 
sKng  you  a  long  yellow  hammock  with  tassels  on  it  like 


I04  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAH^ED  chap. 

ripe  maize,  and  you  put  up  your  feet  and  hear  the  bees 
hum  and  the  water  fall  till  you  go  to  sleep.' 

*  Can  one  work  there? ' 

'Certainly.  One  must  do  something  always.  You 
hang  your  canvas  up  in  a  palm  tree  and  let  the  parrots 
criticise.  When  they  scuffle  you  heave  a  ripe  custard- 
apple  at  them,  and  it  bursts  in  a  lather  of  cream.  There 
are  hundreds  of  places.     Come  and  see  them.' 

'I  don't  quite  like  that  place.  It  sounds  lazy.  Tell  me 
another.' 

'What  do  you  think  of  a  big,  red,  dead  city  built  of  red 
sandstone,  with  raw  green  aloes  growing  between  the 
stones,  lying  out  neglected  on  honey-coloured  sands? 
There  are  forty  dead  kings  there,  Maisie,  each  in  a  gorge- 
ous tomb  finer  than  all  the  others.  You  look  at  the 
palaces  and  streets  and  shops  and  tanks,  and  think  that 
men  must  Uve  there,  till  you  find  a  wee  gray  squirrel  rub- 
bing its  nose  all  alone  in  the  market-place,  and  a  jewelled 
peacock  struts  out  of  a  carved  doorway  and  spreads 
its  tail  against  a  marble  screen  as  fine  pierced  as  point- 
lace.  Then  a  monkey — a  Httle  black  monkey — walks 
through  the  main  square  to  get  a  drink  from  a  tank  forty 
feet  deep.  He  slides  down  the  creepers  to  the  water's 
edge,  and  a  friend  holds  him  by  the  tail,  in  case  he  should 
faU  in.' 

'Is  all  that  true?' 

'  I  have  been  there  and  seen.  Then  evening  comes,  and 
the  lights  change  till  it's  just  as  though  you  stood  in  the 
heart  of  a  king-opal.    A  httle  before  sundown,  as  punctu- 


vn  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  105 

ally  as  clockwork,  a  big  bristly  wild  boar,  with  all  his 
family  following,  trots  through  the  city  gate,  churning  the 
foam  on  his  tusks.  You  climb  on  the  shoulder  of  a  blind 
black  stone  god  and  watch  that  pig  choose  himself  a 
palace  for  the  night  and  stump  in  wagging  his  tail.  Then 
the  night-wind  gets  up,  and  the  sands  move,  and  you 
hear  the  desert  outside  the  city  singing,  "Now  I  lay  me 
down  to  sleep,"  and  everything  is  dark  till  the  moon 
rises.  Maisie,  darling,  come  with  me  and  see  what  the 
world  is  really  like.  It's  very  lovely,  and  it's  very 
horrible, — but  I  won't  let  you  see  anything  horrid, — and 
it  doesn't  care  your  life  or  mine  for  pictures  or  anything 
else  except  doing  its  own  work  and  making  love.  Come, 
and  I'll  show  you  how  to  brew  sangaree,  and  sHng  a  ham- 
mock, and — oh,  thousands  of  things,  and  you'll  see  for 
yourself  what  colour  means,  and  we'U  find  out  together 
what  love  means,  and  then,  maybe,  we  shall  be  allowed  to 
do  some  good  work.     Come  away!' 

'Why?'  said  Maisie. 

'How  can  you  do  anything  until  you  have  seen  every- 
thing, or  as  much  as  you  can?  And  besides,  darling,  I 
love  you.  Come  along  with  me.  You  have  no  business 
here;  you  don't  belong  to  this  place;  you're  half  a  gipsy, — 
your  face  tells  that;  and  I — even  the  smell  of  open  water 
makes  me  restless.     Come  across  the  sea  and  be  happy ! ' 

He  had  risen  to  his  feet,  and  stood  in  the  shadow  of  the 
gun,  looking  down  at  the  girl.  The  very  short  winter 
afternoon  had  worn  away,  and,  before  they  knew,  the 
winter  moon  was  walking  the  untroubled  sea.     Long 


io6  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAH^ED  chap. 

ruled  lines  of  silver  showed  where  a  ripple  of  the  rising 
tide  was  turning  over  the  mud-banks.  The  wind  had 
dropped,  and  in  the  intense  stillness  they  could  hear  a 
donkey  cropping  the  frosty  grass  many  yards  away.  A 
faint  beating,  like  that  of  a  muffled  drum,  came  out  of  the 
moon-haze. 

'What's  that? '  said  Maisie,  quickly.  *It  sounds  like  a 
heart  beating.     Where  is  it? ' 

Dick  was  so  angry  at  this  sudden  wrench  to  his  pleadings 
that  he  could  not  trust  himself  to  speak,  and  in  this  silence 
caught  the  sound.  Maisie  from  her  seat  under  the  gun 
watched  him  with  a  certain  amount  of  fear.  She  wished 
so  much  that  he  would  be  sensible  and  cease  to  worry  her 
with  over-sea  emotion  that  she  both  could  and  could  not 
understand.  She  was  not  prepared,  however,  for  the 
change  in  his  face  as  he  listened. 

'It's  a  steamer,'  he  said, — 'a  twin-screw  steamer,  by  the 
beat.  I  can't  make  her  out,  but  she  must  be  standing 
very  close  in-shore.  Ah ! '  as  the  red  of  a  rocket  streaked 
the  haze,  'she's  standing  in  to  signal  before  she  clears  the 
Channel.' 

'Is  it  a  wreck?'  said  Maisie,  to  whom  these  words  were 
as  Greek. 

Dick's  eyes  were  turned  to  the  sea.  'Wreck!  What 
nonsense!  She's  only  reporting  herself.  Red  rocket  for- 
ward— there's  a  green  light  aft  now,  and  two  red  rockets 
from  the  bridge.' 

'What  does  it  mean?' 

'It's  the  signal  of  the  Cross  Keys  Line  running  to 


vn  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  107 

Australia.  I  wonder  which  steamer  it  is.'  The  note  of 
his  voice  had  changed ;  he  seemed  to  be  talking  to  himself, 
and  Maisie  did  not  approve  of  it.  The  moonlight  broke 
the  haze  for  a  moment,  touching  the  black  sides  of  a  long 
steamer  working  down  Channel.  '  Four  masts  and  three 
funnels — she's  in  deep  draught,  too.  That  must  be  the 
Barralong,  or  the  Bhuiia.  No,  the  Bhutia  has  a  clipper 
bow.  It's  the  Barralong,  to  Australia.  She'll  Hft  the 
Southern  Cross  in  a  week, — lucky  old  tub ! — oh,  lucky  old 
tub!' 

He  stared  intently,  and  moved  up  the  slope  of  the  fort 
to  get  a  better  view,  but  the  mist  on  the  sea  thickened 
again,  and  the  beating  of  her  screws  grew  fainter.  Maisie 
called  to  him  a  httle  angrily,  and  he  returned,  still  keeping 
his  eyes  seaward.  'Have  you  ever  seen  the  Southern 
Cross  blazing  right  over  your  head?'  he  asked.  'It's 
superb ! ' 

'No,'  she  said  shortly,  'and  I  don't  want  to.  If  you 
think  it's  so  lovely,  why  don't  you  go  and  see  it  your- 
self?' 

She  raised  her  face  from  the  soft  blackness  of  the 
marten  skins  about  her  throat,  and  her  eyes  shone  like 
diamonds.  The  moonhght  on  the  gray  kangaroo  fur 
turned  it  to  frosted  silver  of  the  coldest. 

'By  Jove,  Maisie,  you  look  like  a  little  heathen  idol 
tucked  up  there.'  The  eyes  showed  that  they  did  not 
appreciate  the  compliment.  'I'm  sorry,'  he  continued. 
'The  Southern  Cross  isn't  worth  looking  at  unless  some 
one  helps  you  to  see.     That  steamer's  out  of  hearing.' 


io8  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAH^ED  chap. 

*Dick/  she  said  quietly,  'suppose  I  were  to  come  to  you 
now, — ^be  quiet  a  minute, — just  as  I  am,  and  caring  for 
you  just  as  much  as  I  do.' 

'Not  as  a  brother,  though?  You  said  you  didn't — in 
the  Park.' 

'I  never  had  a  brother.  Suppose  I  said,  "Take  me  to 
those  places,  and  in  time,  perhaps,  I  might  really  care  for 
you,"  what  would  you  do? ' 

'Send  you  straight  back  to  where  you  came  from,  in  a 
cab.  No,  I  wouldn't :  I'd  let  you  walk.  But  you  couldn't 
do  it,  dear.  And  I  wouldn't  run  the  risk.  You're  worth 
waiting  for  till  you  can  come  without  reservation.' 

'Do  you  honestly  believe  that?' 

'I  have  a  hazy  sort  of  idea  that  I  do.  Has  it  never 
struck  you  in  that  light?' 

'Ye — es.     I  feel  so  wicked  about  it.' 

'Wickeder  than  usual? ' 

'You  don't  know  all  I  think.  It's  almost  too  awful  to 
teU.' 

'Never  mind.  You  promised  to  tell  me  the  truth — at 
least.' 

'It's  so  ungrateful  of  me,  but — but,  though  I  know  you 
care  for  me,  and  I  like  to  have  you  with  me,  I'd — I'd  even 
sacrifice  you,  if  that  would  bring  me  what  I  want.' 

'  My  poor  little  darling !  I  know  that  state  of  mind.  It 
doesn't  lead  to  good  work.' 

'You  aren't  angry?     Remember,  I  do  despise  myself.' 

'I'm  not  exactly  flattered, — I  had  guessed  as  much  be- 
fore,— but  I'm  not  angry.     I'm  sorry  for  you.     Surely 


vn  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAD^ED  109 

you  ought  to  have  left  a  littleness  like  that  behind  you, 
years  ago.' 

'  You've  no  right  to  patronise  me !  I  only  want  what  I 
have  worked  for  so  long.  It  came  to  you  without  any 
trouble,  and — and  I  don't  think  it's  fair.' 

'What  can  I  do?  I'd  give  ten  years  of  my  life  to  get 
you  what  you  want.  But  I  can't  help  you;  even  I  can't 
help.' 

A  murmur  of  dissent  from  Maisie.     He  went  on — 

'And  I  know  by  what  you  have  just  said  that  you're  on 
the  wrong  road  to  success.  It  isn't  got  at  by  sacrificing 
other  people, — I've  had  that  much  knocked  into  me;  you 
must  sacrifice  yourself,  and  live  under  orders,  and  never 
think  for  yourself,  and  never  have  real  satisfaction  in  your 
work  except  just  at  the  beginning,  when  you're  reaching 
out  after  a  notion.' 

'How  can  you  believe  all  that? ' 

'There's  no  question  of  belief  or  disbelief.  That's  the 
law,  and  you  take  it  or  refuse  it  as  you  please.  I  try  to 
obey,  but  I  can't,  and  then  my  work  turns  bad  on  my 
hands.  Under  any  circumstances,  remember,  four-fifths 
of  everybody's  work  must  be  bad.  But  the  remnant  is 
worth  the  trouble  for  its  own  sake.' 

'Isn't  it  nice  to  get  credit  even  for  bad  work? ' 

'It's  much  too  nice.  But May  I  tell  you  some- 
thing? It  isn't  a  pretty  tale,  but  you're  so  like  a  man 
that  I  forget  when  I'm  talking  to  you.' 

'Tell  me.' 

'  Once  when  I  was  out  in  the  Soudan  I  went  over  some 


no  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  chap. 

ground  that  we  had  been  fighting  on  for  three  days. 
There  were  twelve  hundred  dead;  and  we  hadn't  time  to 
bury  them.' 

'How  ghastly!' 

'  I  had  been  at  work  on  a  big  double-sheet  sketch,  and  I 
was  wondering  what  people  would  think  of  it  at  home. 
The  sight  of  that  field  taught  me  a  good  deal.  It  looked 
just  like  a  bed  of  horrible  toadstools  in  all  colours,  and — • 
I'd  never  seen  men  in  bulk  go  back  to  their  beginnings 
before.  So  I  began  to  understand  that  men  and  women 
were  only  material  to  work  with,  and  that  what  they  said 
or  did  was  of  no  consequence.  See?  Strictly  speaking, 
you  might  just  as  well  put  your  ear  down  to  the  palette  to 
catch  what  your  colours  are  saying.' 

'Dick,  that's  disgraceful!' 

'Wait  a  minute.  I  said,  strictly  speaking.  Unfor- 
tunately, everybody  must  be  either  a  man  or  a  woman.' 

'I'm  glad  you  allow  that  much.' 

'In  your  case  I  don't.  You  aren't  a  woman.  But 
ordinary  people,  Maisie,  must  behave  and  work  as  such. 
That's  what  makes  me  so  savage.'  He  hurled  a  pebble 
towards  the  sea  as  he  spoke.  '  I  know  that  it  is  outside 
my  business  to  care  what  people  say;  I  can  see  that  it 
spoils  my  output  if  I  listen  to  'em;  and  yet,  confound  it 
all,'— another  pebble  flew  seaward, — '  I  can't  help  purring 
when  I'm  rubbed  the  right  way.  Even  when  I  can  see  on 
a  man's  forehead  that  he  is  lying  his  way  through  a 
clump  of  pretty  speeches,  those  lies  make  me  happy  and 
play  the  mischief  with  my  hand.' 


vn  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  iii 

'And  when  he  doesn't  say  pretty  things? ' 

'  Then,  belovedest,' — Dick  grinned, — '  I  forget  that  I  am 
the  steward  of  these  gifts,  and  I  want  to  make  that  man 
love  and  appreciate  my  work  with  a  thick  stick.  It's  too 
humihating  altogether ;  but  I  suppose  even  if  one  were  an 
angel  and  painted  humans  altogether  from  outside,  one 
would  lose  in  touch  what  one  gained  in  grip.' 

Maisie  laughed  at  the  idea  of  Dick  as  an  angel. 

'But  you  seem  to  think/  she  said,  'that  everything 
nice  spoils  your  hand.' 

'I  don't  think.  It's  the  law, — just  the  same  as  it  was 
at  Mrs.  Jennett's.  Everything  that  is  nice  does  spoil 
your  hand.     I'm  glad  you  see  so  clearly.' 

'  I  don't  like  the  view.' 

'Nor  I.  But — have  got  orders:  what  can  do?  Are  you 
strong  enough  to  face  it  alone? ' 

'I  suppose  I  must.' 

'Let  me  help,  darhng.  We  can  hold  each  other  very 
tight  and  try  to  walk  straight.  We  shall  blunder  hor- 
ribly, but  it  will  be  better  than  stumbling  apart.  Maisie, 
can't  you  see  reason?' 

'I  don't  think  we  should  get  on  together.  We  should 
be  two  of  a  trade,  so  we  should  never  agree.' 

'How  I  should  like  to  meet  the  man  who  made  that 
proverb !  He  lived  in  a  cave  and  ate  raw  bear,  I  fancy. 
I'd  make  him  chew  his  own  arrow-heads.     Well? ' 

'I  should  be  only  half  married  to  you.  I  should  worry 
and  fuss  about  my  work,  as  I  do  now.  Four  days  out  of 
seven  I'm  not  fit  to  speak  to.' 


112  THE  LIGHT  TH.\T  FAH^ED  chap. 

'  You  talk  as  if  no  one  else  in  the  world  had  ever  used  a 
brush.  D'you  suppose  that  I  don't  know  the  feeling  of 
worry  and  bother  and  can't-get-at-ness?  You're  lucky 
if  you  only  have  it  four  days  out  of  the  seven.  What 
difference  would  that  make? ' 

'A  great  deal — if  you  had  it  too.' 

'Yes,  but  I  could  respect  it.  Another  man  might  not. 
He  might  laugh  at  you.  But  there's  no  use  talking  about 
it.  If  you  can  think  in  that  way  you  can't  care  for  me 
—yet.' 

The  tide  had  nearly  covered  the  mud-banks,  and 
twenty  little  ripples  broke  on  the  beach  before  Maisie 
chose  to  speak. 

'Dick,'  she  said  slowly,  'I  beHeve  very  much  that  you 
are  better  than  I  am.' 

'This  doesn't  seem  to  bear  on  the  argument — but  in 
what  way? ' 

'I  don't  quite  know,  but  in  what  you  said  about  work 
and  things ;  and  then  you're  so  patient.  Yes,  you're  better 
than  I  am.' 

Dick  considered  rapidly  the  murkiness  of  an  average 
man's  life.  There  was  nothing  in  the  review  to  fill  him 
with  a  sense  of  virtue.  He  Hfted  the  hem  of  the  cloak  to 
his  lips. 

'Why,'  said  Maisie,  making  as  though  she  had  not 
noticed,  '  can  you  see  things  that  I  can't?  I  don't  believe 
what  you  believe;  but  you're  right,  I  beUeve.' 

'If  I've  seen  anything,  God  knows  I  couldn't  have  seen 
it  but  for  you,  and  I  know  that  I  couldn't  have  said  it 


vn  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  113 

except  to  you.  You  seemed  to  make  everything  clear  for 
a  minute ;  but  I  don't  practise  what  I  preach.  You  would 
help  me.  .  .  .  There  are  onl}^  us  two  in  the  world 
for  all  purposes,  and — and  you  like  to  have  me  with  you? ' 

'  Of  course  I  do.  I  wonder  if  you  can  realise  how  utterly 
lonely  I  am ! ' 

'Darhng,  I  think  I  can.' 

'Two  years  ago,  when  I  first  took  the  Httle  house,  I 
used  to  walk  up  and  down  the  back-garden  trjdng  to  cry. 
I  never  can  cry.     Can  you? ' 

'It's  some  time  since  I  tried.  What  was  the  trouble? 
Overwork? ' 

'I  don't  know;  but  I  used  to  dream  that  I  had  broken 
do^vn,  and  had  no  money,  and  was  starving  in  London.  I 
thought  about  it  all  day,  and  it  frightened  me — oh,  how  it 
frightened  me ! ' 

'I  know  that  fear.  It's  the  most  terrible  of  all.  It 
wakes  me  up  in  the  night  sometimes.  You  oughtn't  to 
know  anything  about  it.' 

'  How  do  yoii  know? ' 

'  Never  mind.     Is  your  three  hundred  a  year  safe? ' 

'It's  in  Consols.' 

'Very  well.  If  any  one  comes  to  you  and  recommends 
a  better  investment, — even  if  I  should  come  to  you, — 
don't  you  listen.  Never  shift  the  money  for  a  minute, 
and  never  lend  a  penny  of  it, — even  to  the  red-haired  girl.' 

'  Don't  scold  me  so !     I'm  not  likely  to  be  foolish.' 

'The  earth  is  full  of  men  who'd  sell  their  souls  for  three 
hundred  a  year;  and  women  come  and  talk,  and  borrow  a 


114  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  chap. 

five-pound  note  here  and  a  ten-pound  note  there;  and  a 
woman  has  no  conscience  in  a  money  debt.  Stick  to  your 
money,  Maisie;  for  there's  nothing  more  ghastly  in  the 
world  than  poverty  in  London.  It's  scared  me.  By  Jove, 
it  put  the  fear  into  me  I  And  one  oughtn't  to  be  afraid  of 
anything.' 

To  each  man  is  appointed  his  particular  dread, — the 
terror  that,  if  he  does  not  fight  against  it,  must  cow  him 
even  to  the  loss  of  his  manhood.  Dick's  experience  of  the 
sordid  misery  of  want  had  entered  into  the  deeps  of  him, 
and,  lest  he  might  find  virtue  too  easy,  that  memory  stood 
behind  him,  tempting  to  shame,  when  dealers  came  to  buy 
his  wares.  As  the  Nilghai  quaked  against  his  will  at  the 
still  green  water  of  a  lake  or  a  mill-dam,  as  Torpenhow 
flinched  before  any  white  arm  that  could  cut  or  stab  and 
loathed  himself  for  flinching,  Dick  feared  the  poverty  he 
had  once  tasted  half  in  jest.  His  burden  was  heavier 
than  the  burdens  of  his  companions. 

Maisie  watched  the  face  working  in  the  moonlight. 

'You've  plenty  of  pennies  now,'  she  said  soothingly. 

'I  shall  never  get  enough,'  he  began,  with  vicious 
emphasis.  Then,  laughing,  'I  shall  always  be  threepence 
short  in  my  accounts.' 

'Why  threepence?' 

'I  carried  a  man's  bag  once  from  Liverpool  Street 
Station  to  Elackfriars  Bridge.  It  was  a  sixpenny  job, — 
you  needn't  laugh;  indeed  it  was, — and  I  wanted  the 
money  desperately.  He  only  gave  me  threepence;  and  he 
hadn't  even  the  decency  to  pay  in  silver.    Whatever 


\ii  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  115 

money  I  make,  I  shall  never  get  that  odd  threepence  out 
of  the  world.' 

This  was  no  language  befitting  the  man  who  had 
preached  of  the  sanctity  of  work.  It  jarred  on  Maisie, 
who  preferred  her  payment  in  applause,  which,  since  all 
men  desire  it,  must  be  of  the  right.  She  hunted  for  her 
Httle  purse  and  gravely  took  out  a  threepenny  bit. 

'There  it  is,'  she  said.  'I'll  pay  you,  Dickie;  and  don't 
worry  any  m.ore ;  it  isn't  worth  while.     Are  you  paid? ' 

*I  am,'  said  the  very  human  apostle  of  fair  craft,  taking 
the  coin.  '  I'm  paid  a  thousand  times,  and  we'll  close  that 
account.  It  shall  hve  on  my  watch-chain;  and  you're  an 
angel,  Maisie.' 

'I'm  very  cramped,  and  I'm  feeling  a  Httle  cold.  Good 
gracious!  the  cloak  is  all  white,  and  so  is  your  moustache! 
I  never  knew  it  was  so  chilly.' 

A  light  frost  lay  white  on  the  shoulder  of  Dick's  ulster. 
He,  too,  had  forgotten  the  state  of  the  weather.  They 
laughed  together,  and  with  that  laugh  ended  all  serious 
discourse. 

They  ran  inland  across  the  waste  to  warm  themselves, 
then  turned  to  look  at  the  glory  of  the  full  tide  under  the 
moonlight  and  the  intense  black  shadows  of  the  furze 
bushes.  It  was  an  additional  joy  to  Dick  that  Maisie 
could  see  colour  even  as  he  saw  it,- — could  see  the  blue  in 
the  white  of  the  mist,  the  violet  that  is  in  gray  palings, 
and  all  things  else  as  they  are, — not  of  one  hue,  but  a 
thousand.  And  the  moonlight  came  into  Maisie 's  soul,  so 
that  she,  usually  reserved,  chattered  of  herself  and  of  the 


ii6  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  chap. 

things  she  took  interest  in, — of  Kami,  wisest  of  teachers, 
and  of  the  girls  in  the  studio, — of  the  Poles,  who  will  kill 
themselves  with  overwork  if  they  are  not  checked;  of  the 
French,  who  talk  at  great  length  of  much  more  than  they 
will  ever  accompKsh;  of  the  slovenly  English,  who  toil 
hopelessly  and  cannot  understand  that  inclination  does 
not  imply  power;  of  the  Americans,  whose  rasping  voices 
in  the  hush  of  a  hot  afternoon  strain  tense-drawn  nerves 
to  breaking-point,  and  whose  suppers  lead  to  indigestion; 
of  tempestuous  Russians,  neither  to  hold  nor  to  bind,  who 
tell  the  girls  ghost-stories  till  the  girls  shriek;  of  stolid 
Germans,  who  come  to  learn  one  thing,  and,  having 
mastered  that  much,  stolidly  go  away  and  copy  pictures 
for  evermore.  Dick  listened  enraptured  because  it  was 
Maisie  who  spoke.     He  knew  the  old  life. 

'  It  hasn't  changed  much,'  he  said.  '  Do  they  still  steal 
colours  at  lunch-time? ' 

'Not  steal.  Attract  is  the  word.  Of  course  they  do. 
I'm  good — I  only  attract  ultramarine;  but  there  are 
students  who'd  attract  flake-white.' 

'I've  done  it  myself.  You  can't  help  it  when  the 
palettes  are  hung  up.  Every  colour  is  common  property 
once  it  runs  down, — even  though  you  do  start  it  with  a 
drop  of  oil.      It  teaches  people  not  to  waste  their  tubes.' 

'I  should  like  to  attract  some  of  your  colours,  Dick. 
Perhaps  I  might  catch  your  success  with  them.' 

'  I  mustn't  say  a  bad  word,  but  I  should  like  to.  What 
in  the  world,  which  you've  just  missed  a  lovely  chance  of 
seeing,  does  success  or  want  of  success,  or  a  three-storied 


vn  THE  LIGHT  TH.\T  FAH^ED  117 

success,  matter  compared  with No,  I  won't  open 

that  question  again.    It's  time  to  go  back  to  town.' 

'I'm  sorry,  Dick,  but ' 

'You're  much  more  interested  in  that  than  you  are  in 
me.' 

'I  don't  know,  I  don't  think  I  am.' 

'What  will  you  give  me  if  I  tell  you  a  sure  short-cut  to 
everything  you  want, — the  trouble  and  the  fuss  and  the 
tangle  and  all  the  rest?     Will  you  promise  to  obey  me?' 

'Of  course.' 

'  In  the  first  place,  you  must  never  forget  a  meal  because 
you  happen  to  be  at  work.  You  forgot  your  lunch  twice 
last  week,'  said  Dick,  at  a  venture,  for  he  knew  with 
whom  he  was  deahng. 

'No,  no, — only  once,  really.' 

'That's  bad  enough.  And  you  mustn't  take  a  cup  of 
tea  and  a  biscuit  in  place  of  a  regular  dinner,  because 
dinner  happens  to  be  a  trouble.' 

'  You're  making  fun  of  me ! ' 

'I  never  was  more  in  earnest  in  my  life.  Oh,  my  love, 
my  love,  hasn't  it  dawned  on  you  yet  what  you  are  to  me? 
Here's  the  whole  earth  in  a  conspiracy  to  give  you  a  chill, 
or  run  over  you,  or  drench  you  to  the  skin,  or  cheat  you 
out  of  your  money,  or  let  you  die  of  overwork  and  under- 
feeding, and  I  haven't  the  mere  right  to  look  after  you. 
Why,  I  don't  even  know  if  you  have  sense  enough  to  put 
on  warm  things  when  the  weather's  cold.' 

'Dick,  you're  the  most  awful  boy  to  talk  to — really! 
How  do  you  suppose  I  managed  when  you  were  away? ' 


ii8  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  chap. 

'I  wasn't  here,  and  I  didn't  know.  But  now  I'm  back 
I'd  give  everything  I  have  for  the  right  of  telhng  you  to 
come  in  out  of  the  rain.' 

'Your  success  too?' 

This  time  it  cost  Dick  a  severe  struggle  to  refrain  from 
bad  words. 

'As  Mrs.  Jennett  used  to  say,  you're  a  trial,  Maisie! 
You've  been  cooped  up  in  the  schools  too  long,  and  you 
think  every  one  is  looking  at  you.  There  aren't  twelve 
hundred  people  in  the  world  who  understand  pictures. 
The  others  pretend  and  don't  care.  Remember,  I've  seen 
twelve  hundred  men  dead  in  toadstool-beds.  It's  only 
the  voice  of  the  tiniest  little  fraction  of  people  that 
makes  success.  The  real  world  doesn't  care  a  tinker's— 
doesn't  care  a  bit.  For  aught  you  or  I  know,  every 
man  in  the  world  may  be  arguing  with  a  Maisie  of  his 
own.' 

'Poor  Maisie!' 

'Poor  Dick,  I  think.  Do  you  believe  while  he's  fight- 
ing for  what's  dearer  than  his  life  he  wants  to  look  at  a 
picture?  And  even  if  he  did,  and  if  all  the  world  did,  and 
a  thousand  million  people  rose  up  and  shouted  hymns  to 
my  honour  and  glory,  would  that  make  up  to  me  for  the 
knowledge  that  you  were  out  shopping  in  the  Edgware 
Road  on  a  rainy  day  without  an  umbrella?  Now  we'll  go 
to  the  station.' 

'But  you  said  on  the  beach '  persisted  Maisie,  with 

a  certain  fear. 

Dick  groaned  aloud:  'Yes,  I  know  what  I  said.     My 


vn  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  119 

work  is  everything  I  have,  or  am,  or  hope  to  be  to  me,  and 
I  believe  I've  learnt  the  law  that  governs  it;  but  I've 
some  lingering  sense  of  fun  left, — though  you've  nearly 
knocked  it  out  of  me.  I  can  just  see  that  it  isn't  every- 
thing to  all  the  world.  Do  what  I  say,  and  not  what 
I  do.' 

Maisie  was  careful  not  to  reopen  debatable  matters, 
and  they  returned  to  London  joyously.  The  terminus 
stopped  Dick  in  the  midst  of  an  eloquent  harangue  on  the 
beauties  of  exercise.  He  would  buy  Maisie  a  horse, — 
such  a  horse  as  never  yet  bowed  head  to  bit, — would  stable 
it,  with  a  companion,  some  twenty  miles  from  London, 
and  Maisie,  solely  for  her  health's  sake,  should  ride  with 
him  twice  or  thrice  a  week. 

'That's  absurd,'  said  she.     'It  wouldn't  be  proper.' 

'Now,  who  in  all  London  to-night  would  have  sufficient 
interest  or  audacity  to  call  us  two  to  account  for  anything 
we  chose  to  do?' 

Maisie  looked  at  the  lamps,  the  fog,  and  the  hideous 
turmoil.  Dick  was  right;  but  horseflesh  did  not  make  for 
Art  as  she  understood  it. 

'You're  very  nice  sometimes,  but  you're  very  foolish 
more  times.  I'm  not  going  to  let  you  give  me  horses,  or 
take  you  out  of  your  way  to-night.  I'll  go  home  by  my- 
self. Only  I  want  you  to  promise  me  something.  You 
won't  think  any  more  about  that  extra  threepence,  will 
you?  Remember,  you've  been  paid;  and  I  won't  allow 
you  to  be  spiteful  and  do  bad  work  for  a  little  thing  like 
that.    You  can  be  so  big  that  you  mustn't  be  tiny.' 


I20  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  chap. 

This  was  turning  the  tables  with  a  vengeance.  There 
remained  only  to  put  Maisie  into  her  hansom. 

'  Good-bye,'  she  said  simply.  'You'll  come  on  Sunday. 
It  has  been  a  beautiful  day,  Dick.  Why  can't  it  be  like 
this  always? ' 

'Because  love's  like  line-work:  you  must  go  forward  or 
backward;  you  can't  stand  still.  By  the  way,  go  on  with 
your  line-work.  Good-night,  and,  for  my — for  any  sake, 
take  care  of  yourself.' 

He  turned  to  walk  home,  meditating.  The  day  had 
brought  him  nothing  that  he  hoped  for,  but — surely  this 
was  worth  many  days — it  had  brought  him  nearer  to 
Maisie.  The  end  was  only  a  question  of  time  now,  and 
the  prize  well  worth  the  waiting.  By  instinct,  once  more, 
he  turned  to  the  river. 

'And  she  understood  at  once,'  he  said,  looking  at  the 
water.  'She  found  out  my  pet  besetting  sin  on  the  spot, 
and  paid  it  ofi.  My  God,  how  she  understood !  And  she 
said  I  was  better  than  she  was!  Better  than  she  was!' 
He  laughed  at  the  absurdity  of  the  notion.  'I  wonder  if 
girls  guess  at  one-half  a  man's  life.  They  can't,  or — they 
wouldn't  marry  us.'  He  took  her  gift  out  of  his  pocket, 
and  considered  it  in  the  light  of  a  miracle  and  a  pledge  of 
the  comprehension  that,  one  day,  would  lead  to  perfect 
happiness.  Meantime,  Maisie  was  alone  in  London,  with 
none  to  save  her  from  danger.  And  the  packed  wilder- 
ness was  very  full  of  danger. 

Dick  made  his  prayer  to  Fate  disjointedly  after  the 
manner  of  the  heathen  as  he  threw  the  piece  of  silver  into 


vn  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  121 

the  river.  If  any  evil  were  to  befall,  let  him  bear  the 
burden  and  let  Maisie  go  unscathed,  since  the  threepenny 
piece  was  dearest  to  him  of  all  his  possessions.  It  was  a 
small  coin  in  itself,  but  Maisie  had  given  it,  and  the 
Thames  held  it,  and  surely  the  Fates  would  be  bribed  for 
this  once. 

The  drowning  of  the  coin  seemed  to  cut  him  free  from 
thought  of  Maisie  for  the  moment.  He  took  himself  off 
the  bridge  and  went  whisthng  to  his  chambers  with  a 
strong  yearning  for  some  man-talk  and  tobacco  after  his 
first  experience  of  an  entire  day  spent  in  the  society  of  a 
woman.  There  was  a  stronger  desire  at  his  heart  when 
there  rose  before  him  an  unsolicited  vision  of  the  Barra- 
long  dipping  deep  and  sailing  free  for  the  Southern  Cross. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

And  these  two,  as  I  have  told  you, 

Were  the  friends  of  Hiawatha, 

Chibiabos,  the  musician. 

And  the  very  strong  man,  Kwasind. 

— Hiawatha. 

ToRPENHOW  was  paging  the  last  sheets  of  some  manu- 
script, while  the  Nilghai,  who  had  come  for  chess  and  re- 
mained to  talk  tactics,  was  reading  through  the  first  part, 
commenting  scornfuUy  the  while. 

'It's  picturesque  enough  and  it's  sketchy,'  said  he; 
'but  as  a  serious  consideration  of  affairs  in  Eastern 
Europe,  it's  not  worth  much.' 

'It'soff  my  hands  at  any  rate.  .  .  .  Thirty-seven, 
thirty-eight,  thirty-nine  slips  altogether,  aren't  there? 
That  should  make  between  eleven  and  twelve  pages  of 
valuable  misinformation.  Heigho!'  Torpenhow  shuffled 
the  writing  together  and  hummed — 

Young  lambs  to  sell,  young  lambs  to  sell, 

If  I'd  as  much  money  as  I  could  tell, 

I  never  would  cry,  Young  lambs  to  sell! 

Dick  entered,  self-conscious  and  a  little  defiant,  but  in 
the  best  of  tempers  with  all  the  world. 

122 


CHAP.  VIII  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  123 

'Back  at  last? '  said  Torpenhow. 

'  More  or  less.     What  have  you  been  doing? ' 

'Work.  Dickie,  you  behave  as  though  the  Bank  of 
England  were  behind  you.  Here's  Sunday,  Monday,  and 
Tuesday  gone  and  you  haven't  done  a  line.  It's  scanda- 
lous.' 

'The  notions  come  and  go,  my  children — they  come 
and  go  like  our  'baccy,'  he  answered,  filling  his  pipe. 
'Moreover,'  he  stooped  to  thrust  a  spill  into  the  grate, 

'Apollo  does  not  always  stretch  his Oh,  confound 

your  clumsy  jests,  Nilghai!' 

'This  is  not  the  place  to  preach  the  theory  of  direct 
inspiration,'  said  the  Nilghai,  returning  Torpenhow's 
large  and  workmanlike  bellows  to  their  nail  on  the  wall. 
'  We  believe  in  cobblers'  wax.    La ! — where  you  sit  down. ' 

'If  you  weren't  so  big  and  fat,'  said  Dick,  looking  round 
for  a  weapon, '  I'd ' 

'No  skylarking  in  my  rooms.  You  two  smashed  half 
my  furniture  last  time  you  threw  the  cushions  about. 
You  might  have  the  decency  to  say  How  d'you  do?  to 
Binkie.     Look  at  him.' 

Binkie  had  jumped  down  from  the  sofa  and  was  fawn- 
ing round  Dick's  knee,  and  scratching  at  his  boots. 

'Dear  man!'  said  Dick,  snatching  him  up,  and  kissing 
him  on  the  black  patch  above  his  right  eye.  'Did  ums 
was,  Binks?  Did  that  ugly  Nilghai  turn  you  off  the  sofa? 
Bite  him,  Mr.  Binkie.'  He  pitched  him  on  the  Nilghai's 
stomach,  as  the  big  man  lay  at  ease,  and  Binkie  pretended 
to  destroy  the  Nilghai  inch  by  inch,  till  a  sofa  cushion  ex- 


124  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAH^ED  chap. 

tinguished  him,  and  panting  he  stuck  out  his  tongue  at 
the  company. 

'The  Binkie-boy  went  for  a  walk  this  morning  before 
you  were  up,  Torp.  I  saw  him  making  love  to  the  butcher 
at  the  corner  when  the  shutters  were  being  taken  down — • 
just  as  if  he  hadn't  enough  to  eat  in  his  own  proper 
house,'  said  Dick. 

'Binks,  is  that  a  true  bill?'  said  Torpenhow,  severely. 
The  little  dog  retreated  under  the  sofa  cushion,  and 
showed  by  the  fat  white  back  of  him  that  he  really  had  no 
further  interest  in  the  discussion. 

'Strikes  me  that  another  disreputable  dog  went  for  a 
walk,  too,'  said  the  Nilghai.  'What  made  you  get  up  so 
early?     Torp  said  you  might  be  buying  a  horse.' 

'He  knows  it  would  need  three  of  us  for  a  serious 
business  like  that.  No,  I  felt  lonesome  and  unhappy,  so  I 
went  out  to  look  at  the  sea,  and  watch  the  pretty  ships  go 
by.' 

'  Where  did  you  go? ' 

'Somewhere  on  the  Channel.  Progly  or  Snigly,  or 
some  watering-place  was  its  name;  I've  forgotten;  but 
it  was  only  two  hours'  run  from  London  and  the  ships 
went  by.' 

'  Did  you  see  anything  you  knew? ' 

'Only  the  Barralong  outwards  to  Australia,  and  an 
Odessa  grain-boat  loaded  down  by  the  head.  It  was  a 
thick  day,  but  the  sea  smelt  good.' 

'Wherefore  put  on  one's  best  trousers  to  see  the  Barra- 
long ? '  said  Torpenhow,  pointing. 


vin  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAH^ED  125 

'Because  I've  nothing  except  these  things  and  my 
painting  duds.  Besides,  I  wanted  to  do  honour  to  the 
sea.' 

'Did  She  make  you  feel  restless?'  asked  the  Nilghai, 
keenly. 

'  Crazy.     Don't  speak  of  it.     I'm  sorry  I  went.' 

Torpenhow  and  the  Nilghai  exchanged  a  look  as  Dick, 
stooping,  busied  himself  among  the  former's  boots  and 
trees. 

'These  will  do,'  he  said  at  last;  *I  can't  say  I  think 
much  of  your  taste  in  slippers,  but  the  fit's  the  thing.'  He 
slipped  his  feet  into  a  pair  of  sock-like  sambhur-skin  foot 
coverings,  found  a  long  chair,  and  lay  at  length. 

'They're  my  own  pet  pair,'  Torpenhow  said.  'I  was 
just  going  to  put  them  on  myself.' 

'All  your  reprehensible  selfishness.  Just  because  you 
see  me  happy  for  a  minute,  you  want  to  worry  me  and  stir 
me  up.     Find  another  pair.' 

'  Good  for  you  that  Dick  can't  wear  your  clothes,  Torp. 
You  two  live  communis tically,'  said  the  Nilghai. 

'Dick  never  has  anything  that  I  can  wear.  He's  only 
useful  to  sponge  upon.' 

'Confound  you,  have  you  been  rummaging  round 
among  my  caches,  then? '  said  Dick.  '  I  put  a  sovereign 
in  the  tobacco-jar  yesterday.  How  do  you  expect  a  man 
to  keep  his  accounts  properly  if  you ' 

Here  the  Nilghai  began  to  laugh,  and  Torpenhow  joined 
him. 

'Hid   a   sovereign  yesterday!     You're  no   sort  of   a 


126  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  chap. 

financier.  You  lent  me  a  fiver  about  a  month  back.  Do 
you  remember?'  Torpenhow  said. 

'Yes,  of  course.' 

'  Do  you  remember  that  I  paid  it  you  ten  days  later,  and 
you  put  it  at  the  bottom  of  the  tobacco? ' 

'  By  Jove,  did  I?  I  thought  it  was  in  one  of  my  colour- 
boxes.' 

'You  thought!  About  a  week  ago  I  went  into  your 
studio  to  get  some  'baccy  and  found  it.' 

'What  did  you  do  with  it? ' 

'Took  the  Nilghai  to  a  theatre  and  fed  him.' 

'You  couldn't  feed  the  Nilghai  under  twice  the  money 
— not  though  you  gave  him  Army  beef.  Well,  I  suppose 
I  should  have  found  it  out  sooner  or  later.  What  is  there 
to  laugh  at? ' 

'You're  a  most  amazing  cuckoo  in  many  directions,' 
said  the  Nilghai,  still  chuckling  over  the  thought  of  the 
dinner.  'Nevermind.  We  had  both  been  working  very 
hard,  and  it  was  your  unearned  increment  we  spent,  and 
as  you're  only  a  loafer  it  didn't  matter.' 

'That's  pleasant — from  the  man  who  is  bursting  with 
my  meat,  too.  I'll  get  that  dinner  back  one  of  these  days. 
Suppose  we  go  to  a  theatre  now.' 

'Put  our  boots  on, — and  dress, — and  wash?'  The 
Nilghai  spoke  very  lazily. 

'I  withdraw  the  motion.' 

'  Suppose,  just  for  a  change — as  a  startling  variety,  you 
know — we,  that  is  to  say  we,  get  our  charcoal  and  our 
canvas  and  go  on  with  our  work.'     Torpenhow  spoke 


vm  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAH^ED  127 

pointedly,  but  Dick  only  wriggled  his  toes  inside  the  soft 
leather  moccasins. 

'  What  a  one-ideaed  clucker  it  is !  If  I  had  any  unfinished 
jQgures  on  hand,  I  haven't  any  model;  if  I  had  my  model,  I 
haven't  any  spray,  and  I  never  leave  charcoal  unfixed 
overnight;  and  if  I  had  my  spray  and  twenty  photographs 
of  backgrounds,  I  couldn't  do  anything  to-night.  I  don't 
feel  that  way.' 

*Binkie-dog,  he's  a  lazy  hog,  isn't  he? '  said  the  Nilghai. 

'Very  good,  I  will  do  some  work,'  said  Dick,  rising 
swiftly.  'I'll  fetch  the  Nungapunga  Book,  and  we'll  add 
another  picture  to  the  Nilghai  Saga.' 

'Aren't  you  worrying  him  a  Httle  too  much? '  asked  the 
Nilghai,  when  Dick  had  left  the  room. 

'Perhaps,  but  I  know  what  he  can  turn  out  if  he  likes. 
It  makes  me  savage  to  hear  him  praised  for  past  wurk 
when  I  know  what  he  ought  to  do.  You  and  I  are 
arranged  for ' 

'By  Kismet  and  our  own  powers,  more's  the  pity.  I 
have  dreamed  of  a  good  deal.' 

'So  have  I,  but  we  know  our  limitations  now.  I'm 
dashed  if  I  know  what  Dick's  may  be  when  he  gives  him- 
self to  his  work.  That's  what  makes  me  so  keen  about 
him.' 

'And  when  all's  said  and  done,  you  will  be  put  aside — 
quite  rightly — for  a  female  girl.' 

'  I  wonder  .  .  .  Where  do  you  think  he  has  been  to- 
day?' 

'To  the  sea.     Didn't  you  see  the  look  in  his  eyes  when 


128  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  chap. 

he  talked  about  her?  He's  as  restless  as  a  swallow  in 
autumn.' 

'  Yes ;  but  did  he  go  alone? ' 

'I  don't  know,  and  I  don't  care,  but  he  has  the  begin- 
nings of  the  go-fever  upon  him.  He  wants  to  up-stakes 
and  move  out.  There's  no  mistaking  the  signs.  What- 
ever he  may  have  said  before,  he  has  the  call  upon  him 
now.' 

'  It  might  be  his  salvation,'  Torpenhow  said. 

'Perhaps — ^if  you  care  to  take  the  responsibility  of 
being  a  saviour.' 

Dick  returned  with  the  big  clasped  sketch-book  that 
the  Nilghai  knew  well  and  did  not  love  too  much.  In  it 
Dick  had  drawn  all  manner  of  moving  incidents,  ex- 
perienced by  himself  or  related  to  liim  by  the  others,  of  all 
the  four  corners  of  the  earth.  But  the  wider  range  of  the 
Nilghai's  body  and  life  attracted  him  most.  When  truth 
failed  he  fell  back  on  fiction  of  the  wildest,  and  represented 
incidents  in  the  Nilghai's  career  that  were  unseemly, — his 
marriages  with  many  African  princesses,  his  shameless 
betrayal,  for  Arab  wives,  of  an  army  corps  to  the  Mahdi, 
his  tattooment  by  skilled  operators  in  Burmah,  his  inter- 
view (and  his  fears)  with  the  yellow  headsman  in  the 
blood-stained  execution-ground  of  Canton,  and  finally,  the 
passings  of  his  spirit  into  the  bodies  of  whales,  elephants, 
and  toucans.  Torpenhow  from  time  to  time  had  added 
rhymed  descriptions,  and  the  whole  was  a  curious  piece  of 
art,  because  Dick  decided,  having  regard  to  the  name  of 
the  book  which  being  interpreted  means  'naked,'  that  it 


vm  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  129 

would  be  wrong  to  draw  the  Nilghai  with  any  clothes  on, 
under  any  circumstances.  Consequently  the  last  sketch, 
representing  that  much-enduring  man  calling  on  the  War 
Office  to  press  his  claims  to  the  Egyptian  medal,  was 
hardly  delicate.  He  settled  himself  comfortably  at  Tor- 
penhow's  table  and  turned  over  the  pages. 

'What  a  fortune  you  would  have  been  to  Blake,  Nilghai!' 
he  said.  'There's  a  succulent  pinkness  about  some  of 
these  sketches  that's  more  than  Hfelike.  ''The  Nilghai 
surrounded  while  bathing  by  the  Mahdieh" — that  was 
founded  on  fact,  eh? ' 

'It  was  very  nearly  my  last  bath,  you  irreverent  dauber. 
Has  Binkie  come  into  the  Saga  yet? ' 

'No;  the  Binkie-boy  hasn't  done  anything  except  eat 
and  kill  cats.  Let's  see.  Here  you  are  as  a  stained-glass 
saint  in  a  church.  Deuced  decorative  Unes  about  your 
anatomy;  you  ought  to  be  grateful  for  being  handed 
down  to  posterity  in  this  way.  Fifty  years  hence  you'll 
exist  in  rare  and  curious  facsimiles  at  ten  guineas  each. 
What  shall  I  try  this  time?  The  domestic  life  of  the 
Nilghai?' 

'Hasn't  got  any.' 

'The  undomestic  life  of  the  Nilghai,  then.  Of  course. 
Mass-meeting  of  his  wives  in  Trafalgar  Square.  That's  it. 
They  came  from  the  ends  of  the  earth  to  attend  Nilghai's 
wedding  to  an  English  bride.  This  shall  be  in  sepia.  It's 
a  sweet  material  to  work  with.' 

'  It's  a  scandalous  waste  of  time,'  said  Torpenhow. 

'Don't  worry;  it  keeps  one's  hand  in — specially  when 


130  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAH^ED  chap. 

you  begin  without  the  pencil.'  He  set  to  work  rapidly. 
'That's  Nelson's  Column.  Presently  the  Nilghai  will 
appear  shinning  up  it.' 

'Give  him  some  clothes  this  time.' 

'Certainly — a  veil  and  an  orange-wreath,  because  he's 
been  married.' 

'Gad,  that's  clever  enough!'  said  Torpenhow  over  his 
shoulder,  as  Dick  brought  out  of  the  paper  with  three 
twirls  of  the  brush  a  very  fat  back  and  labouring  shoulder 
pressed  against  the  stone. 

'Just  imagine,'  Dick  continued,  'if  we  could  pubhsh  a 
few  of  these  dear  little  things  every  time  the  Nilghai 
subsidises  a  man  who  can  write,  to  give  the  public  an 
honest  opinion  of  my  pictures.' 

'Well,  you'll  admit  I  always  tell  you  when  I  have  done 
anything  of  that  kind.  I  know  I  can't  hammer  you  as 
you  ought  to  be  hammered,  so  I  give  the  job  to  another. 
Young  Maclagan,  for  instance ' 

'No-o — one  half -minute,  old  man;  stick  your  hand  out 
against  the  dark  of  the  wall-paper — you  only  burble  and 
call  me  names.  That  left  shoulder's  out  of  drawing.  I 
must  literally  throw  a  veil  over  that.  Where's  my  pen- 
knife?   Well,  what  about  Maclagan? ' 

'  I  only  gave  him  his  riding-orders  to — to  lambast  you  on 
general  principles  for  not  producing  work  that  will  last.' 

'Whereupon  that  young  fool,'— Dick  threw  back  his 
head  and  shut  one  eye  as  he  shifted  the  page  under  his 
hand, — '  being  left  alone  with  an  ink-pot  and  what  he  con- 
ceived were  his  own  notions,  went  and  spilt  them  both 


vra  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  ■  131 

over  me  in  the  papers.  You  might  have  engaged  a  grown 
man  for  the  business,  Nilghai.  How  do  you  think  the 
bridal  veil  looks  now,  Torp? ' 

'How  the  deuce  do  three  dabs  and  two  scratches  make 
the  stuff  stand  away  from  the  body  as  it  does?'  said  Tor- 
penhow,  to  whom  Dick's  methods  were  always  new. 

'It  just  depends  on  where  you  put  'em.  If  Maclagan 
had  known  that  much  about  his  business  he  might  have 
done  better.' 

'Why  don't  you  put  the  damned  dabs  into  something 
that  will  stay,  then? '  insisted  the  Nilghai,  who  had  really 
taken  considerable  trouble  in  hiring  for  Dick's  benefit  the 
pen  of  a  young  gentleman  who  devoted  most  of  his  waking 
hours  to  an  anxious  consideration  of  the  aims  and  ends  of 
Art,  which,  he  wrote,  was  one  and  indivisible. 

'Wait  a  minute  till  I  see  how  I  am  going  to  manage  my 
procession  of  wives.  You  seem  to  have  married  exten- 
sively, and  I  must  rough  'em  in  with  the  pencil — Medes, 
Parthians,  Edomites.  .  .  .  Now,  setting  aside  the 
weakness  and  the  wickedness  and — and  the  fat-headed- 
ness  of  deliberately  trying  to  do  work  that  will  live,  as 
they  call  it,  I'm  content  with  the  knowledge  that  I've 
done  my  best  up  to  date,  and  I  shan't  do  anything  like  it 
again  for  some  hours  at  least — probably  years.  Most 
probably  never.' 

'What!  any  stuff  you  have  in  stock  your  best  work?' 
said  Torpenhow. 

'Anything  you've  sold? '  said  the  Nilghai. 

'Oh  no.     It  isn't  here  and  it  isn't  sold.     Better  than 


132  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  chap. 

that,  it  can't  be  sold,  and  I  don't  think  any  one  knows 
where  it  is.  I'm  sure  I  don't.  .  .  .  And  yet  more 
and  more  wives,  on  the  north  side  of  the  square.  Observe 
the  virtuous  horror  of  the  hons! ' 

'You  may  as  well  explain,'  ^aid  Torpenhow^  and  Dick 
lifted  his  head  from  the  paper.,. 

'The  sea  reminded  me  of  it,'  he  said  slowly.  'I  wish  it 
hadn't.  It  weighs  some  few  thousand  tons — unless  you 
cut  it  out  with  a  cold  chisel.' 

'Don't  be  an  idiot.  You  can't  pose  with  us  here,'  said 
the  Nilghai. 

'There's  no  pose  in  the  matter  at  all.  It's  a  fact.  I 
was  loafing  from  Lima  to  Auckland  in  a  big,  old,  con- 
demned passenger-ship  turned  into  a  cargo-boat  and 
owned  by  a  second-hand  Italian  firm.  She  was  a  crazy 
basket.  We  were  cut  down  to  fifteen  ton  of  coal  a  day, 
and  we  thought  ourselves  lucky  when  we  kicked  seven 
knots  an  hour  out  of  her.  Then  we  used  to  stop  and  let 
the  bearings  cool  down,  and  wonder  whether  the  crack  in 
the  shaft  was  spreading.' 

'Were  you  a  steward  or  a  stoker  in  those  days?' 

'I  was  flush  for  the  time  being,  so  I  was  a  passenger,  or 
else  I  should  have  been  a  steward,  I  think,'  said  Dick, 
with  perfect  gravity,  returning  to  the  procession  of  angry 
wives.  'I  was  the  only  other  passenger  from  Lima,  and 
the  ship  was  half  empty,  and  full  of  rats  and  cockroaches 
and  scorpions.' 

'But  what  has  this  to  do  with  the  picture?' 

'Wait  a  minute.     She  had  been  in  the  China  passenger 


vnr  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  133 

trade  and  her  lower  decks  had  bunks  for  two  thousand 
pigtails.  Those  were  all  taken  down,  and  she  was  empty 
up  to  her  nose,  and  the  Ughts  came  through  the  port- 
holes— most  annoying  lights  to  work  in  till  you  got  used 
to  them.  I  hadn't  anything  to  do  for  weeks.  The  ship's 
charts  were  in  pieces  and  our  skipper  daren't  run  south 
for  fear  of  catching  a  storm.  So  he  did  his  best  to  knock 
all  the  Society  Islands  out  of  the  water  one  by  one  and  I 
went  into  the  lower  deck,  and  did  my  picture  on  the  port 
side  as  far  forward  in  her  as  I  could  go.  There  was 
some  brown  paint  and  some  green  paint  that  they  used  for 
the  boats,  and  some  black  paint  for  ironwork,  and  that 
was  all  I  had.' 

'The  passengers  must  have  thought  you  mad.' 

'There  was  only  one,  and  it  was  a  woman;  but  it  gave 
me  the  notion  of  my  picture.' 

'What  was  she  like? '  said  Torpenhow. 

'She  was  a  sort  of  Negroid- Jewess-Cuban;  with  morals 
to  match.  She  couldn't  read  or  write,  and  she  didn't 
want  to,  but  she  used  to  come  down  and  watch  me  paint, 
and  the  skipper  didn't  like  it,  because  he  was  paying  her 
passage  and  had  to  be  on  the  bridge  occasionally.' 

'  I  see.     That  must  have  been  cheerful.' 

'It  was  the  best  time  I  ever  had.  To  begin  with,  we 
didn't  know  whether  we  should  go  up  or  go  down  any 
minute  when  there  was  a  sea  on;  and  when  it  was  calm  it 
was  paradise ;  and  the  woman  used  to  m.ix  the  paints  and 
talk  broken  Enghsh,  and  the  skipper  used  to  steal  down 
every  few  minutes  to  the  lower  deck,  because  he  said  he 


134  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAK^ED  chap. 

was  SO  afraid  of  fire.  So,  you  see,  we  could  never  tell 
when  we  might  be  caught,  and  I  had  a  splendid  notion  to 
work  out  in  only  three  keys  of  colour.' 

'  What  was  the  notion?' 

'Two  lines  in  Poe — 

Neither  the  angels  in  Heaven  above  nor  the  demons  down  under  the  sea, 
Can  ever  dissever  my  soul  from  the  soul  of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee. 

It  came  out  of  the  sea — all  by  itself.  I  drew  that  fight, 
fought  out  in  green  water  over  the  naked,  choking  soul, 
and  the  woman  served  as  the  model  for  the  devils  and  the 
angels  both — sea-devils  and  sea-angels,  and  the  soul  half 
drowned  between  them.  It  doesn't  sound  much,  but 
when  there  was  a  good  light  on  the  lower  deck  it  looked 
very  fine  and  creepy.  It  was  seven  by  fourteen  feet,  all 
done  in  shifting  hght  for  shifting  light.' 

'Did  the  woman  inspire  you  much?'  said  Torpenhow. 

'She  and  the  sea  between  them — immensely.  There 
was  a  heap  of  bad  drawing  in  that  picture.  I  remember 
I  went  out  of  my  way  to  foreshorten  for  sheer  delight  of 
doing  it,  and  I  foreshortened  damnably,  but  for  all  that 
it's  the  best  thing  I've  ever  done;  and  now  I  suppose  the 
ship's  broken  up  or  gone  down.  Whew!  What  a  time 
that  was ! ' 

'What  happened  after  all?' 

'  It  all  ended.  They  were  loading  her  with  wool  when  I 
left  the  ship,  but  even  the  stevedores  kept  the  picture 
clear  to  the  last.  The  eyes  of  the  demons  scared  them,  I 
honestly  believe.' 


vra  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  135 

'And  the  woman?' 

'  She  was  scared  too  when  it  was  finished.  She  used  to 
cross  herself  before  she  went  down  to  look  at  it.  Just 
three  colours  and  no  chance  of  getting  any  more,  and  the 
sea  outside  and  unlimited  love-making  inside,  and  the 
fear  of  death  atop  of  everything  else,  O  Lord!'  He  had 
ceased  to  look  at  the  sketch,  but  was  staring  straight  in 
front  of  him  across  the  room. 

'  Why  don't  you  try  something  of  the  same  kind  now? ' 
said  the  Nilghai. 

'Because  those  things  come  not  by  fasting  and  prayer. 
When  I  find  a  cargo-boat  and  a  Jewess-Cuban  and  an- 
other notion  and  the  same  old  life,  I  may.' 

'You  won't  find  them  here,'  said  the  Nilghai. 

'No,  I  shall  not.'  Dick  shut  the  sketch-book  with  a 
bang.  'This  room's  as  hot  as  an  oven.  Open  the  win- 
dow, some  one.' 

He  leaned  into  the  darkness,  watching  the  greater 
darkness  of  London  below  him.  The  chambers  stood 
much  higher  than  the  other  houses,  commanding  a 
hundred  chimneys — crooked  cowls  that  looked  like 
sitting  cats  as  they  swung  round,  and  other  uncouth  brick 
and  zinc  mysteries  supported  by  iron  stanchions  and 
clamped  by  S-pieces.  Northward  the  lights  of  Piccadilly 
Circus  and  Leicester  Square  threw  a  copper-coloured 
glare  above  the  black  roofs,  and  southward  by  all  the 
orderly  lights  of  the  Thames.  A  train  rolled  out  across 
one  of  the  railway  bridges,  and  its  thunder  drowned  for  a 
minute  the  dull  roar  of  the  streets.    The  Nilghai  looked 


136  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  chap. 

at  his  watch  and  said  shortly,  'That's  the  Paris  night- 
mail.  You  can  book  from  here  to  St.  Petersburg  if  you 
choose.' 

Dick  crammed  head  and  shoulders  out  of  the  window 
and  looked  across  the  river.  Torpenhow  came  to  his  side, 
while  the  Nilghai  passed  over  quietly  to  the  piano  and 
opened  it.  Binkie,  making  himself  as  large  as  possible, 
spread  out  upon  the  sofa  with  the  air  of  one  who  is  not  to 
be  lightly  disturbed. 

'Well,'  said  the  Nilghai  to  the  two  pairs  of  shoulders, 
'have  you  never  seen  this  place  before?' 

A  steam-tug  on  the  river  hooted  as  she  towed  her 
barges  to  wharf.  Then  the  boom  of  the  traffic  came  into 
the  room.  Torpenhow  nudged  Dick.  'Good  place  to 
bank  in — bad  place  to  bunk  in,  Dickie,  isn't  it? ' 

Dick's  chin  was  in  his  hand  as  he  answered,  in  the 
words  of  a  general  not  mthout  fame,  still  looking  out  on 
the  darkness — ' ' '  My  God,  what  a  city  to  loot ! " ' 

Binkie  found  the  night  air  tickling  his  whiskers  and 
sneezed  plaintively. 

'We  shall  give  the  Binkie-dog  a  cold,'  said  Torpenhow. 
'Come  in,'  and  they  withdrew  their  heads.  'You'll  be 
buried  in  Kensal  Green,  Dick,  one  of  these  days,  if  it  isn't 
closed  by  the  time  you  want  to  go  there — buried  within 
two  feet  of  some  one  else,  his  wife  and  his  family.' 

'Allah  forbid !  I  shall  get  away  before  that  time  comes. 
Give  a  man  room  to  stretch  his  legs,  Mr.  Binkie.'  Dick 
flung  himself  down  on  the  sofa  and  tweaked  Binkie's 
velvet  ears,  yawning  heavily  the  while. 


vm  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  137 

*  You'll  find  that  wardrobe-case  very  much  out  of 
tune/  Torpenhow  said  to  the  Nilghai.  *  It's  never  touched 
except  by  you.' 

'A  piece  of  gross  extravagance,'  Dick  grunted.  'The 
Nilghai  only  comes  when  I'm  out.' 

'That's  because  you're  always  out.  Howl,  Nilghai, 
and  let  him  hear.' 

'The  life  of  the  Nilghai  is  fraud  and  slaughter, 
His  writings  are  watered  Dickens  and  water; 
But  the  voice  of  the  Nilghai  raised  on  high 
Makes  even  the  Mahdieh  glad  to  die ! ' 

Dick  quoted  from  Torpenhow's  letterpress  in  the 
Nungapunga  Book.  '  How  do  they  call  moose  in  Canada, 
Nilghai?' 

The  man  laughed.  Singing  was  his  one  polite  accom- 
plishment, as  many  Press-tents  in  far-off  lands  had 
known. 

'What  shall  I  sing? '  said  he,  turning  in  the  chair. 

'"Moll  Roe  in  the  Morning,"'  said  Torpenhow,  at  a 
venture. 

'No,'  said  Dick,  sharply,  and  the  Nilghai  opened  his 
eyes.  The  old  chanty  whereof  he,  among  a  very  few, 
possessed  all  the  words  was  not  a  pretty  one,  but  Dick 
had  heard  it  many  times  before  without  wincing.  With- 
out prelude  he  launched  into  that  stately  tune  that  calls 
together  and  troubles  the  hearts  of  the  gipsies  of  the  sea — 

'Farewell  and  adieu  to  you,  Spanish  ladies, 
Farewell  and  adieu  to  you,  ladies  of  Spain.' 


138  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  chap. 

Dick  turned  uneasily  on  the  sofa,  for  he  could  hear  the 
bows  of  the  Barralong  crashing  into  the  green  seas  on  her 
way  to  the  Southern  Cross.     Then  came  the  chorus — 

'We'll  rant  and  we'll  roar  like  true  British  sailors, 
We'll  rant  and  we'll  roar  across  the  salt  seas, 
Until  we  take  soundings  in  the  Channel  of  Old  England 
From  Ushant  to  Scilly  'tis  forty-five  leagues.' 

*  Thirty-five — thirty-five/  said  Dick,  petulantly. 
'Don't  tamper  with  Holy  Writ.     Go  on,  Nilghai.' 

'  The  first  land  we  made  it  was  called  the  Deadman,' 

and  they  sang  to  the  end  very  vigorously. 

'That  would  be  a  better  song  if  her  head  were  turned 
the  other  way — to  the  Ushant  light,  for  instance,'  said 
the  Nilghai. 

'FHnging  its  arms  about  Hke  a  mad  windmill,'  said  Tor- 
penhow.  'Give  us  something  else,  Nilghai.  You're  in 
fine  fog-horn  form  to-night.' 

'Give  us  the  "Ganges  Pilot":  you  sang  that  in  the 
square  the  night  before  El-Maghrib.  By  the  way,  I 
wonder  how  many  of  the  chorus  are  alive  to-night,'  said 
Dick. 

Torpenhow  considered  for  a  minute.  '  By  Jove !  I  be- 
Heve  only  you  and  I.  Raynor,  Vickery,  and  Deenes — all 
dead;  Vincent  caught  smallpox  in  Cairo,  carried  it  here 
and  died  of  it.     Yes,  only  you  and  I  and  the  Nilghai.' 

'Umph!  And  yet  the  men  here  who've  done  their 
work  in  a  well-warmed  studio  all  their  lives,  with  a  police- 


vm  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  139 

man  at  each  corner,  say  that  I  charge  too  much  for  my 
pictures.' 

'They  are  buying  your  work,  not  your  insurance  poli- 
cies, dear  child,'  said  the  Nilghai. 

'  I  gambled  with  one  to  get  at  the  other.  Don't  preach. 
Go  on  with  the  Pilot.  Where  in  the  world  did  you  get 
that  song? ' 

'On  a  tombstone,'  said  the  Nilghai.  'On  a  tombstone 
in  a  distant  land.  I  made  it  an  accompaniment  with 
heaps  of  bass  chords.' 

'Oh,  Vanity!     Begin.'     And  the  Nilghai  began — 

'I  have  slipped  my  cable,  messmates,  I'm  drifting  down  with  the  tide, 

I  have  my  sailing  orders,  while  ye  at  anchor  ride. 

And  never  on  fair  June  morning  have  I  put  out  to  sea 

With  clearer  conscience  or  better  hope,  or  a  heart  more  light  and  free. 

'Shoulder  to  shoulder,  Joe,  my  boy,  into  the  crowd  like  a  wedge. 
Strike  with  the  hangers,  messmates,  but  do  not  cut  with  the  edge. 
Cries  Charnock,  "Scatter  the  faggots,  double  that  Brahmin  in  two, 
The  tall  pale  widow  for  me,  Joe,  the  little  brown  girl  for  you ! " 

'  Young  Joe  (you're  nearing  sixty) ,  why  is  your  hide  so  dark? 
Katie  has  soft  blue  eyes,  who  blackened  yours? — ^Why,  hark! ' 

They  were  all  singing  now,  Dick  with  the  roar  of  the 
wind  of  the  open  sea  about  his  ears  as  the  deep  bass  voice 
let  itself  go. 

'The  morning  gun — Ho,  steady!  the  arquebuses  to  me! 
I  ha'  sounded  the  Dutch  High  Admiral's  heart  as  my  lead  doth  sound  the 
sea. 


I40  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAH^ED  chap. 

Sounding,  sounding  the  Ganges,  floating  down  with  the  tide, 
Moor  me  close  to  Charnock,  next  to  my  nut-brown  bride. 
My  blessing  to  Kate  at  Fairlight — Hoi  well,  my  thanks  to  you; 
Steady !     We  steer  for  heaven,  through  sand-drifts  cold  and  blue.' 

'Now  what  is  there  in  that  nonsense  to  make  a  man 
restless?'  said  Dick,  hauUng  Binkie  from  his  feet  to  his 
chest. 

'It  depends  on  the  man,'  said  Torpenhow. 

'The  man  w^ho  has  been  down  to  look  at  the  sea,'  said 
the  Nilghai. 

'I  didn't  know  she  was  going  to  upset  me  in  this 
fashion.' 

'  That's  what  men  say  when  they  go  to  say  good-bye  to 
a  woman.  It's  more  easy  though  to  get  rid  of  three 
women  than  a  piece  of  one's  Ufe  and  surroundings.' 

'But  a  woman  can  be '  began  Dick,  unguardedly. 

'A  piece  of  one's  life,'  continued  Torpenhow.  'No,  she 
can't.'  His  face  darkened  for  a  moment.  'She  says  she 
wants  to  sympathise  with  you  and  help  you  in  your  work, 
and  everything  else  that  clearly  a  man  must  do  for  him- 
self. Then  she  sends  round  five  notes  a  day  to  ask  why 
the  dickens  you  haven't  been  wasting  your  time  with  her.' 

'  Don't  generalise,'  said  the  Nilghai.  '  By  the  time  you 
arrive  at  five  notes  a  day  you  must  have  gone  through  a 
good  deal  and  behaved  accordingly.  Shouldn't  begin 
these  things,  my  son.' 

'I  shouldn't  have  gone  down  to  the  sea,'  said  Dick,  just 
a  Httle  anxious  to  change  the  conversation.  'And  you 
shouldn't  have  sung.' 


vm  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  141 

'The  sea  isn't  sending  you  five  notes  a  day,'  said  the 
Nilghai. 

'No,  but  I'm  fatally  compromised.  She's  an  enduring 
old  hag,  and  I'm  sorry  I  ever  met  her.  Why  wasn't  I 
born  and  bred  and  dead  in  a  three-pair  back? ' 

'Hear  him  blaspheming  his  first  love!  Why  in  the 
world  shouldn't  you  Hsten  to  her?'  said  Torpenhow. 

Before  Dick  could  reply  the  Nilghai  lifted  up  his  voice 
with  a  shout  that  shook  the  windows,  in  'The  Men  of  the 
Sea,'  that  begins,  as  all  knovv%  'The  sea  is  a  wicked  old 
woman,'  and  after  racing  through  eight  Knes  whose 
imagery  is  truthful,  ends  in  a  refrain,  slow  as  the  clacking 
of  a  capstan  when  the  boat  comes  unwilKngly  up  to  the 
bars  where  the  men  sweat  and  tramp  in  the  shingle. 

'"Ye  that  bore  us,  O  restore  us! 
She  is  kinder  than  ye; 
For  the  call  is  on  our  heart-strings! " 
Said  The  Men  of  the  Sea.' 

The  Nilghai  sang  that  verse  twice,  with  simple  cunning, 
intending  that  Dick  should  hear.  But  Dick  was  waiting 
for  the  farev/ell  of  the  men  to  their  wives. 

'"Ye  that  love  us,  can  ye  move  us? 
She  is  dearer  than  ye; 
And  your  sleep  will  be  the  sweeter," 
Said  The  Men  of  the  Sea.' 

The  rough  words  beat  like  the  blows  of  the  waves  on  the 
bows  of  the  rickety  boat  from  Lima  in  the  days  when 


142  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  chap. 

Dick  was  mixing  paints,  making  love,  drawing  devils  and 
angels  in  the  half  dark,  and  wondering  whether  the  next 
minute  would  put  the  Italian  captain's  knife  between  his 
shoulder-blades.  And  the  go-fever  which  is  more  real 
than  many  doctors'  diseases,  waked  and  raged,  urging 
him  who  loved  Maisie  beyond  anything  in  the  world,  to  go 
away  and  taste  the  old  hot,  unregenerate  life  again, — to 
scuffle,  swear,  gamble,  and  love  light  loves  with  his  fellows; 
to  take  ship  and  know  the  sea  once  more,  and  by  her  beget 
pictures;  to  talk  to  Binat  among  the  sands  of  Port  Said 
while  Yellow  'Tina  mixed  the  drinks ;  to  hear  the  crackle 
of  musketry,  and  see  the  smoke  roll  outward,  thin  and 
thicken  again  till  the  shining  black  faces  came  through, 
and  in  that  hell  every  man  was  strictly  responsible  for  his 
own  head,  and  his  own  alone,  and  struck  with  an  un- 
fettered arm.  It  was  impossible,  utterly  impossible,  but — 

*"0h,  our  fathers,  in  the  churchyard, 
She  is  older  than  ye, 
And  our  graves  will  be  the  greener," 
Said  The  Men  of  the  Sea.' 

'What  is  there  to  hinder?'  said  Torpenhow,  in  the  long 
hush  that  followed  the  song. 

'You  said  a  little  time  since  that  you  wouldn't  come  for 
a  walk  round  the  world,  Torp.' 

'That  was  months  ago,  and  I  only  objected  to  your 
making  money  for  travelling  expenses.  You've  shot 
your  bolt  here  and  it  has  gone  home.  Go  away  and  do 
some  work,  and  see  some  things.' 


vni  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  143 

'  Get  some  of  the  fat  off  you;  you're  disgracefully  out  of 
condition,'  said  the  Nilghai,  making  a  plunge  from  the 
chair  and  grasping  a  handful  of  Dick  generally  over  the 
right  ribs.  'Soft  as  putty — pure  tallow  born  of  over- 
feeding.    Train  it  off,  Dickie.' 

'We're  all  equally  gross,  Nilghai.  Next  time  you  have 
to  take  the  field  you'll  sit  down,  wink  your  eyes,  gasp,  and 
die  in  a  fit.' 

'Never  mind.  You  go  away  on  a  ship.  Go  to  Lima 
again,  or  to  Brazil.  There's  always  trouble  in  South 
America.' 

'Do  you  suppose  I  want  to  be  told  where  to  go?  Great 
Heavens,  the  only  difficulty  is  to  know  where  I'm  to  stop. 
But  I  shall  stay  here,  as  I  told  you  before.' 

'Then  you'll  be  buried  in  Kensal  Green  and  turn 
into  adipocere  with  the  others,'  said  Torpenhow.  'Are 
you  thinking  of  commissions  in  hand?  Pay  forfeit  and 
go.  You've  money  enough  to  travel  as  a  king  if  you 
please.' 

'You've  the  grisliest  notions  of  amusement,  Torp.  I 
think  I  see  myself  shipping  first  class  on  a  six-thousand- 
ton  hotel,  and  asking  the  third  engineer  what  makes  the 
engines  go  round,  and  whether  it  isn't  very  warm  in  the 
stokehold.  Ho!  ho!  I  should  ship  as  a  loafer  if  ever  I 
shipped  at  all,  which  I'm  not  going  to  do.  I  shall  com- 
promise, and  go  for  a  small  trip  to  begin  with.' 

'That's  something  at  any  rate.  Where  will  you  go?' 
said  Torpenhow.  'It  would  do  you  all  the  good  in  the 
world,  old  man.' 


144  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  chap. 

The  Nilghai  saw  the  twinkle  in  Dick's  eye,  and  re- 
frained from  speech. 

'  I  shall  go  in  the  first  place  to  Rathray's  stable,  where  I 
shall  hire  one  horse,  and  take  him  very  carefully  as  far  as 
Richmond  Hill.  Then  I  shall  walk  him  back  again,  in 
case  he  should  accidentally  burst  into  a  lather  and  make 
Rathray  angry.  I  shall  do  that  to-morrow,  for  the  sake 
of  air  and  exercise.' 

'  Bah ! '  Dick  had  barely  time  to  throw  up  his  arm  and 
ward  off  the  cushion  that  the  disgusted  Torpenhow 
heaved  at  his  head. 

'Air  and  exercise  indeed,'  said  the  Nilghai,  sitting  down 
heavily  on  Dick.  'Let's  give  him  a  httle  of  both.  Get 
the  bellows,  Torp.' 

At  this  point  the  conference  broke  up  in  disorder,  be- 
cause Dick  would  not  open  his  mouth  till  the  Nilghai  held 
his  nose  fast,  and  there  was  some  trouble  in  forcing  the 
nozzle  of  the  bellows  between  his  teeth;  and  even  when  it 
was  there  he  weakly  tried  to  puff  against  the  force  of  the 
blast,  and  his  cheeks  blew  up  with  a  great  explosion;  and 
the  enemy  becoming  helpless  with  laughter  he  so  beat 
them  over  the  head  with  a  soft  sofa  cushion  that  that  be- 
came unsewn  and  distributed  its  feathers,  and  Binkie,  in- 
terfering in  Torpenhow's  interests,  was  bundled  into  the 
half-empty  bag  and  advised  to  scratch  his  way  out,  which 
he  did  after  a  while,  travelling  rapidly  up  and  down  the 
floor  in  the  shape  of  an  agitated  green  haggis,  and  when 
he  came  out  looking  for  satisfaction,  the  three  pillars  of 
his  world  were  picking  feathers  out  of  their  hair. 


vm  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  145 

'A  prophet  has  no  honour  in  his  own  country/  said 
Dick,  ruefully,  dusting  his  knees.  'This  filthy  fluff  will 
never  brush  off  my  bags.' 

'It  was  all  for  your  good,'  said  the  Nilghai.  'Noth- 
ing h'ke  air  and  exercise.' 

'All  for  your  good,'  said  Torpenhow,  not  in  the 
least  with  reference  to  past  clowning.  'It  would  let  you 
focus  things  at  their  proper  worth  and  prevent  your  be- 
coming slack  in  this  hothouse  of  a  town.  Indeed  it 
would,  old  man.  I  shouldn't  have  spoken  if  I  hadn't 
thought  so.     Only,  you  make  a  joke  of  everything.' 

'Before  God  I  do  no  such  thing,'  said  Dick,  quickly  and 
earnestly.     '  You  don't  know  me  if  you  think  that. ' 

'/  don't  think  it,'  said  the  Nilghai. 

'How  can  fellows  like  ourselves,  who  know  what  Hfe 
and  death  really  mean,  dare  to  make  a  joke  of  anything? 
I  know  we  pretend  it,  to  save  ourselves  from  breaking 
down  or  going  to  the  other  extreme.  Can't  I  see,  old  man, 
how  you're  always  anxious  about  me,  and  try  to  advise 
me  to  make  my  work  better?  Do  you  suppose  I  don't 
think  about  that  myself?  But  you  can't  help  me — you 
can't  help  me— not  even  you.  I  must  play  my  own  hand 
alone  in  my  own  way.' 

'Hear,  hear,'  from  the  Nilghai. 

'What's  the  one  thing  in  the  Nilghai  Saga  that  I've 
never  drawn  in  the  Nungapunga  Book?'  Dick  contin- 
ued to  Torpenhow,  who  was  a  Httle  astonished  at  the  out- 
burst. 

Now  there  was  one  blank  page  in  the  book  given  over 


146  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  chap. 

to  the  sketch  that  Dick  had  not  drawn  of  the  crowning 
exploit  in  the  Nilghai's  life;  when  that  man,  being  young, 
and  forgetting  that  his  body  and  bones  belonged  to  the 
paper  that  employed  him,  had  ridden  over  sunburned 
slippery  grass  in  the  rear  of  Bredow's  brigade  on  the 
day  that  the  troopers  flung  themselves  at  Canrobert's 
artillery,  and  for  aught  they  knew  twenty  battalions  in 
front,  to  save  the  battered  24th  German  Infantry,  to 
give  time  to  decide  the  fate  of  Vionville,  and  to  learn 
ere  their  remnant  came  back  to  Flavigay  that  cavalry 
can  attack  and  crumple  and  break  unshaken  infantry. 
Whenever  he  was  incHned  to  think  over  a  Hfe  that  might 
have  been  better,  an  income  that  might  have  been  larger, 
and  a  soul  that  might  have  been  considerably  cleaner,  the 
Nilghai  would  comfort  himself  with  the  thought,  '  I  rode 
with  Bredow's  brigade  at  Vionville,'  and  take  heart  for 
any  lesser  battle  the  next  day  might  bring. 

' I  know,'  he  said  very  gravely.  '  I  was  always  glad  that 
you  left  it  out.' 

'I  left  it  out  because  Nilghai  taught  me  what  the 
German  army  learned  then,  and  what  Schmidt  taught 
their  cavalry.  I  don't  know  German.  What  is  it? 
''Take  care  of  the  time  and  the  dressing  will  take  care  of 
itself."  I  must  ride  my  own  line  to  my  own  beat,  old 
man.' 

*  Tempo  ist  richtimg.  You've  learned  your  lesson  well,' 
said  the  Nilghai.  'He  must  go  alone.  He  speaks  truth, 
Torp.' 

'  Maybe  I'm  as  wrong  as  I  can  be — hideously  wrong.    I 


vin  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAH^ED  147 

must  find  that  out  for  myself,  as  I  have  to  think  things  out 
for  myseK,  but  I  daren't  turn  my  head  to  dress  by  the  next 
man.  It  hurts  me  a  great  deal  more  than  you  know  not 
to  be  able  to  go,  but  I  cannot,  that's  all.  I  must  do  my 
own  work  and  Hve  my  own  life  in  my  own  way,  because 
I'm  responsible  for  both.  Only  don't  think  I  frivol 
about  it,  Torp.  I  have  my  own  matches  and  sulphur, 
and  I'll  make  my  own  hell,  thanks.' 

There  was  an  uncomfortable  pause.  Then  Torpen- 
how  said  blandly,  'What  did  the  Governor  of  North 
Carolina  say  to  the  Governor  of  South  CaroHna?' 

'Excellent  notion.  It  is  a  long  time  between  drinks. 
There  are  the  makings  of  a  very  fine  prig  in  you,  Dick,' 
said  the  Nilghai. 

'I've  hberated  my  mind,  estimable  Binkie,  with  the 
feathers  in  his  mouth.'  Dick  picked  up  the  still  indignant 
one  and  shook  him  tenderly.  'You're  tied  up  in  a  sack 
and  made  to  run  about  bhnd,  Binkie-wee,  without  any 
reason,  and  it  has  hurt  your  Uttle  feelings.  Never  mind. 
Sic  volo,  sic  jubeo,  stet  pro  ratione  "voluntas,  and  don't 
sneeze  in  my  eye  because  I  talk  La  tin.     Good-night.' 

He  went  out  of  the  room. 

*  That's  distinctly  one  for  you,'  said  the  Nilghai.  '  I  told 
you  it  was  hopeless  to  meddle  with  him.  He's  not  pleased.' 

'He'd  swear  at  me  if  he  weren't.  I  can't  make  it  out. 
He  has  the  go-fever  upon  him  and  he  won't  go.  I  only 
hope  that  he  mayn't  have  to  go  some  day  when  he  doesn't 
want  to,'  said  Torpenhow. 

4:  ^  ^  4s  4i  4: 


148  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  chap,  vin 

In  his  own  room  Dick  was  settling  a  question  with  him- 
self— and  the  question  was  whether  all  the  world,  and  all 
that  was  therein,  and  a  burning  desire  to  exploit  both, 
was  worth  one  threepenny  piece  thrown  into  the  Thames. 

'  It  came  of  seeing  the  sea,  and  I'm  a  cur  to  think  about 
it,'  he  decided.  'After  all,  the  honeymoon  will  be  that 
tour — with  reservations;  only  .  .  .  only  I  didn't 
reahse  that  the  sea  was  so  strong.  I  didn't  feel  it  so 
much  when  I  was  with  Maisie.  These  damnable  songs 
did  it.     He's  beginning  again.' 

But  it  was  only  Herrick's  Nightpiece  to  Juha  that  the 
Nilghai  sang,  and  before  it  was  ended  Dick  reappeared  on 
the  threshold,  not  altogether  clothed  indeed,  but  in  his 
right  mind,  thirsty  and  at  peace. 

The  mood  had  come  and  gone  with  the  rising  and  the 
falling  of  the  tide  by  Fort  Keeling. 


CHAPTER  DC 

'If  I  have  taken  the  common  clay 

And  wrought  it  cunningly 
In  the  shape  of  a  god  that  was  digged  a  clod, 

The  greater  honour  to  me.' 

'If  thou  hast  taken  the  common  clay, 

And  thy  hands  be  not  free 
From  the  taint  of  the  soil,  thou  hast  made  thy  spoil 

The  greater  shame  to  thee.' — The  Two  Potters. 

He  did  no  work  of  any  kind  for  the  rest  of  the  week. 
Then  came  another  Sunday.  He  dreaded  and  longed 
for  the  day  always,  but  since  the  red-haired  girl  had 
sketched  him  there  was  rather  more  dread  than  desire  in 
his  mind. 

He  found  that  Maisie  had  entirely  neglected  his 
suggestions  about  line-work.  She  had  gone  off  at  score 
filled  with  some  absurd  notion  for  a  '  fancy  head.'  It  cost 
Dick  something  to  command  his  temper. 

'What's  the  good  of  suggesting  anything?'  he  said 
pointedly. 

'Ah,  but  this  will  be  a  picture, — a  real  picture;  and  I 
know  that  Kami  will  let  me  send  it  to  the  Salon.  You 
don't  mind,  do  you?' 

149 


ISO  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  chap. 

'I  suppose  not.  But  you  won't  have  time  for  the 
Salon.' 

Maisie  hesitated  a  little.     She  even  felt  uncomfortable. 

'We're  going  over  to  France  a  month  sooner  because  of 
it.  I  shall  get  the  idea  sketched  out  here  and  work  it  up 
at  Kami's.' 

Dick's  heart  stood  still,  and  he  came  very  near  to  being 
disgusted  with  his  queen  who  could  do  no  wrong.  'Just 
when  I  thought  I  had  made  some  headway,  she  goes  off 
chasing  butterflies.     It's  too  maddening!' 

There  was  no  possibility  of  arguing,  for  the  red-haired 
girl  was  in  the  studio.  Dick  could  only  look  unutterable 
reproach. 

'I'm  sorry,'  he  said,  'and  I  think  you  make  a  mistake. 
But  what's  the  idea  of  your  new  picture? ' 

'I  took  it  from  a  book.' 

'That's  bad,  to  begin  with.  Books  aren't  the  place 
for  pictures.     And ' 

'It's  this,'  said  the  red-haired  girl  behind  him.  'I  was 
reading  it  to  Maisie  the  other  day  from  The  City  of 
Dreadful  Night.     D'you  know  the  book? ' 

'A  Httle.  I  am  sorry  I  spoke.  There  are  pictures  in 
it.     What  has  taken  her  fancy? ' 

*  The  description  of  the  Melancoha — 

'  Her  folded  wings  as  of  a  mighty  eagle, 
But  all  too  impotent  to  lift  the  regal 
Robustness  of  her  earth-born  strength  and  pride. 

And  here  again,     (Maisie,  get  the  tea,  dear.) 


DC  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAH^ED  151 

'  The  forehead  charged  with  baleful  thoughts  and  dreams, ' 
The  household  bunch  of  keys,  the  housewife's  gown, 

Voluminous  indented,  and  yet  rigid 

As  though  a  shell  of  burnished  metal  frigid. 
Her  feet  thick-shod  to  tread  all  weakness  down.' 

There  was  no  attempt  to  conceal  the  scorn  of  the  lazy- 
voice.     Dick  winced. 

'  But  that  has  been  done  already  by  an  obscure  artist  by 
the  name  of  Diirer,'  said  he.     '  How  does  the  poem  run? — 

*  Three  centuries  and  threescore  years  ago, 
With  phantasies  of  his  peculiar  thought. 

You  might  as  well  try  to  rewrite  Hamlet.  It  wiU  be 
waste  of  time.' 

'No,  it  won't/  said  Maisie,  putting  down  the  teacups 
with  a  clatter  to  reassure  herself.  'And  I  mean  to  do  it. 
Can't  you  see  what  a  beautiful  thing  it  would  make? ' 

'How  in  perdition  can  one  do  work  when  one  hasn't  had 
the  proper  training?  Any  fool  can  get  a  notion.  It 
needs  training  to  drive  the  thing  through, — training  and 
conviction ;  not  rushing  after  the  first  fancy.'  Dick  spoke 
between  his  teeth. 

'  You  don '  t  understand , '  said  Maisie .  *  I  think  I  can  do  it/ 

Again  the  voice  of  the  girl  behind  him — 

'Baffled  and  beaten  back,  she  works  on  still; 

Weary  and  sick  of  soul,  she  works  the  more. 
Sustained  by  her  indomitable  will, 

The  hands  shall  fashion,  and  the  brain  shall  pore, 
And  all  her  sorrow  shall  be  turned  to  labour 


152  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  chap. 

I  fancy  Maisie  means  to  embody  herself  in  the  pic- 
ture.' 

'Sitting  on  a  throne  of  rejected  pictures?  No,  I 
shan't,  dear.  The  notion  in  itself  has  fascinated  me. — 
Of  course  you  don't  care  for  fancy  heads,  Dick.  I  don't 
think  you  could  do  them.     You  like  blood  and  bones.' 

'That's  a  direct  challenge.  If  you  can  do  a  Melancolia 
that  isn't  merely  a  sorrowful  female  head,  I  can  do  a 
better  one;  and  I  will,  too.  What  d'you  know  about 
Melancolias? '  Dick  firmly  believed  that  he  was  even 
then  tasting  three-quarters  of  all  the  sorrow  in  the 
world. 

'She  was  a  woman,'  said  Maisie,  'and  she  suffered  a 
great  deal, — till  she  could  suffer  no  more.  Then  she 
began  to  laugh  at  it  all,  and  then  I  painted  her  and  sent 
her  to  the  Salon.' 

The  red-haired  girl  rose  up  and  left  the  room,  laughing. 

Dick  looked  at  Maisie  humbly  and  hopelessly. 

'Never  mind  about  the  picture,'  he  said.  'Are  you 
really  going  back  to  Kami's  a  month  before  your  time?' 

'  I  must,  if  I  want  to  get  the  picture  done.' 

'And  that's  all  you  want?' 

'  Of  course.     Don't  be  stupid,  Dick.' 

'  You  haven't  the  power.  You  have  only  the  ideas — the 
ideas  and  the  Httle  cheap  impulses.  How  you  could  have 
kept  at  your  work  for  ten  years  steadily  is  a  mystery 
to  me.  So  you  are  really  going, — a  month  before  you 
need? ' 

'I  must  do  my  work.' 


IX  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  153 

'Your  work — bah!  .  .  .  No,  I  didn't  mean  that. 
It's  all  right,  dear.  Of  course  you  must  do  your  work, 
and — I  think  I'll  say  good-bye  for  this  week.' 

'Won't  you  even  stay  for  tea?' 

'No,  thank  you.  Have  I  your  leave  to  go,  dear? 
There's  nothing  more  you  particularly  want  me  to  do, 
and  the  line-work  doesn't  matter.' 

'  I  wish  you  could  stay,  and  then  we  could  talk  over  my 
picture.  If  only  one  single  picture's  a  success,  it  draws 
attention  to  all  the  others.  I  know  some  of  my  work  is 
good,  if  only  people  could  see.  And  you  needn't  have 
been  so  rude  about  it.' 

'I'm  sorry.  We'll  talk  the  Melancolia  over  some  one 
of  the  other  Sundays.  There  are  four  more — yes,  one, 
two,  three,  four— before  you  go.     Good-bye,  Maisie.' 

Maisie  stood  by  the  studio  window,  thinking,  till  the 
red-haired  girl  returned,  a  little  white  at  the  corners  of  her 
lips. 

' Dick's  gone  off,'  said  Maisie.  'Just  when  I  wanted  to 
talk  about  the  picture.     Isn't  it  selfish  of  him? ' 

Her  companion  opened  her  Hps  as  if  to  speak,  shut 
them  again,  and  went  on  reading  The  City  of  Dreadful 
Night. 

Dick  was  in  the  Park,  walking  round  and  round  a  tree 
that  he  had  chosen  as  his  confidante  for  many  Sundays 
past.  He  was  swearing  audibly,  and  when  he  found  that 
the  infirmities  of  the  English  tongue  hemmed  in  his  rage, 
he  sought  consolation  in  Arabic,  which  is  expressly 
designed  for  the  use  of  the  afflicted.     He  was  not  pleased 


154  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAH^ED  chap. 

with  the  reward  of  his  patient  service;  nor  was  he  pleased 
with  himself;  and  it  was  long  before  he  arrived  at  the 
proposition  that  the  queen  could  do  no  wrong. 

'  It's  a  losing  game/  he  said.  '  I'm  worth  nothing  when 
a  whim  of  hers  is  in  question.  But  in  a  losing  game  at 
Port  Said  we  used  to  double  the  stakes  and  go  on.  She 
do  a  MelancoHa !  She  hasn't  the  power,  or  the  insight,  or 
the  training.  Only  the  desire.  She's  cursed  with  the 
curse  of  Reuben.  She  won't  do  line-work,  because  it 
means  real  work;  and  yet  she's  stronger  than  I  am.  I'll 
make  her  understand  that  I  can  beat  her  on  her  own  Mel- 
ancoha.  Even  then  she  wouldn't  care.  She  says  I  can 
only  do  blood  and  bones.  I  don't  beheve  she  has  blood  in 
her  veins.  All  the  same  I  love  her;  and  I  must  go  on 
loving  her;  and  if  I  can  humble  her  inordinate  vanity  I 
will.  I'll  do  a  MelancoUa  that  shall  be  something  like  a 
MelancoHa — ''the  MelancoHa  that  transcends  all  wit." 
I'll  do  it  at  once,  con — bless  her.' 

He  discovered  that  the  notion  would  not  come  to  order, 
and  that  he  could  not  free  his  mind  for  an  hour  from  the 
thought  of  Llaisie's  departure.  He  took  very  small 
interest  in  her  rough  studies  for  the  MelancoHa  when  she 
showed  them  next  week.  The  Sundays  were  racing  past, 
and  the  time  was  at  hand  when  all  the  church  bells  in 
London  could  not  ring  Maisie  back  to  him.  Once  or 
twice  he  said  something  to  Binkie  about  'hermaphroditic 
futiHties,'  but  the  little  dog  received  so  many  confidences 
both  from  Torpenhow  and  Dick  that  he  did  not  trouble 
his  tuHp-ears  to  Hsten. 


DC  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  155 

Dick  was  permitted  to  see  the  girls  off.  They  were 
going  by  the  Dover  night-boat;  and  they  hoped  to  return 
in  August.  It  was  then  February,  and  Dick  felt  that  he 
was  being  hardly  used.  Maisie  was  so  busy  stripping  the 
small  house  across  the  Park,  and  packing  her  canvases, 
that  she  had  no  time  for  thought.  Dick  went  down  to 
Dover  and  wasted  a  day  there  fretting  over  a  wonderful 
possibiHty.  Would  Maisie  at  the  very  last  allow  him  one 
small  kiss?  He  reflected  that  he  might  capture  her  by 
the  strong  arm,  as  he  had  seen  women  captured  in  the 
Southern  Soudan,  and  lead  her  away;  but  Maisie  would 
never  be  led.  She  would  turn  her  gray  eyes  upon  him 
and  say,  '  Dick,  how  selfish  you  are ! '  Then  his  courage 
would  fail  him.  It  would  be  better,  after  all,  to  beg  for 
that  kiss. 

Maisie  looked  more  than  usually  kissable  as  she  stepped 
from  the  night-mail  on  to  the  windy  pier,  in  a  gray  water- 
proof and  a  little  gray  cloth  travelling-cap.  The  red- 
haired  girl  was  not  so  lovely.  Her  green  eyes  were  hoUow 
and  her  lips  were  dry.  Dick  saw  the  trunks  aboard,  and 
went  to  Maisie 's  side  in  the  darkness  under  the  bridge. 
The  mail-bags  were  thundering  into  the  forehold,  and  the 
red-haired  girl  was  watching  them. 

'  You'll  have  a  rough  passage  to-night,'  said  Dick.  '  It's 
blowing  outside.  I  suppose  I  may  come  over  and  see  you 
if  I'm  good?' 

'You  mustn't.  I  shall  be  busy.  At  least,  if  I  want 
you  I'll  send  for  you.  But  I  shall  write  from  Vitry-sur- 
Marne.     I  shall  have  heaps  of  things  to  consult  you 


IS6  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  chap. 

about.     Oh,  Dick,  you  have  been  so  good  to  me ! — so  good 
to  me ! ' 

'Thank  you  for  that,  dear.  It  hasn't  made  any 
difference,  has  it? ' 

'I  can't  tell  a  fib.  It  hasn't — in  that  way.  But  don't 
think  I'm  not  grateful.' 

'  Damn  the  gratitude ! '  said  Dick,  huskily,  to  the  paddle- 
box. 

'  AVhat's  the  use  of  worr>ang?  You  know  I  should  ruin 
your  hfe,  and  you'd  ruin  mine,  as  things  are  now.  You 
remem.ber  what  you  said  when  you  were  so  angry  that  day 
in  the  Park?  One  of  us  has  to  be  broken.  Can't  you  wait 
till  that  day  comes? ' 

'  No,  love.   I  want  you  unbroken — all  to  myself.' 

Maisie  shook  her  head.  'My  poor  Dick,  what  can  I 
say!' 

'Don't  say  anything.  Give  me  a  kiss.  Only  one  kiss, 
Maisie.  I'll  swear  I  won't  take  any  more.  You  might 
as  well,  and  then  I  can  be  sure  you're  grateful.' 

Maisie  put  her  cheek  forward,  and  Dick  took  his  re- 
ward in  the  darkness.  It  was  only  one  kiss,  but,  since 
there  was  no  time-limit  specified,  it  was  a  long  one. 
Maisie  wrenched  herself  free  angrily,  and  Dick  stood 
abashed  and  tingling  from  head  to  heel. 

'  Good-bye,  darling.  I  didn't  mean  to  scare  you.  I'm 
sorry.  Only — keep  well  and  do  good  work,— specially 
the  Melancolia.  I'm  going  to  do  one,  too.  Remember 
me  to  Kami,  and  be  careful  what  you  drink.  Country 
drinking-water  is  bad   everywhere,   but  it's  worse   in 


K  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  157 

France.  Write  to  me  if  you  want  anything,  and  good-bye. 
Say  good-bye  to  the  what-you-call-um  girl,  and — can't  I 
have  another  kiss?  No.  You're  quite  right.  Good- 
bye.* 

A  shout  told  him  that  it  was  not  seemly  to  charge  up 
the  mail-bag  incline.  He  reached  the  pier  as  the  steamer 
began  to  move  off,  and  he  followed  her  with  his  heart. 

'And  there's  nothing — nothing  in  the  wide  world — to 
keep  us  apart  except  her  obstinacy.  These  Calais  night- 
boats  are  much  too  small.  I'll  get  Torp  to  write  to  the 
papers  about  it.     She's  beginning  to  pitch  already.' 

Maisie  stood  where  Dick  had  left  her  till  she  heard  a 
little  gasping  cough  at  her  elbow.  The  red-haired  girl's 
eyes  were  alight  with  cold  flame. 

'He  kissed  you!'  she  said.  'How  could  you  let  him, 
when  he  wasn't  anything  to  you?  How  dared  you  take  a 
kiss  from  him?  Oh,  Maisie,  let's  go  to  the  ladies'  cabin. 
I'm  sick, — deadly  sick.' 

'We  aren't  into  open  water  yet.  Go  down,  dear,  and 
I'll  stay  here.  I  don't  hke  the  smell  of  the  engines.  .  .  . 
Poor  Dick!  He  deserved  one, — only  one.  But  I  didn't 
think  he'd  frighten  me  so.' 

Dick  returned  to  town  next  day  just  in  time  for  lunch, 
for  which  he  had  telegraphed.  To  his  disgust,  there  were 
only  empty  plates  in  the  studio.  He  lifted  up  his  voice 
like  the  bears  in  the  fairy-tale,  and  Torpenhow  entered, 
looking  guilty. 

'H'sh!' said  he.  'Don't  make  such  a  noise.  I  took  it. 
Come  into  my  rooms,  and  I'll  show  you  why.' 


158  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  chap. 

Dick  paused  amazed  at  the  threshold,  for  on  Torpen- 
how's  sofa  lay  a  girl  asleep  and  breathing  heavily.  The 
little  cheap  sailor-hat,  the  blue-and-white  dress,  fitter  for 
June  than  for  February,  dabbled  with  mud  at  the  skirts, 
the  jacket  trimmed  with  imitation  Astrakhan  and  ripped 
at  the  shoulder-seams,  the  one-and-elevenpenny  umbrella, 
and,  above  all,  the  disgraceful  condition  of  the  kid-topped 
boots,  declared  all  things. 

'  Oh,  I  say,  old  man,  this  is  too  bad !  You  mustn't  bring 
this  sort  up  here.     They  steal  things  from  the  rooms.' 

'  It  looks  bad,  I  admit,  but  I  was  coming  in  after  lunch, 
and  she  staggered  into  the  hall.  I  thought  she  was  drunk 
at  first,  but  it  was  collapse.  I  couldn't  leave  her  as  she 
was,  so  I  brought  her  up  here  and  gave  her  your  lunch. 
She  was  fainting  from  want  of  food.  She  went  fast  asleep 
the  minute  she  had  finished.' 

*I  know  something  of  that  complaint.  She's  been 
living  on  sausages,  I  suppose.  Torp,  you  should  have 
handed  her  over  to  a  poHceman  for  presuming  to  faint  in  a 
respectable  house.  Poor  little  wretch!  Look  at  that 
face!  There  isn't  an  ounce  of  immorahty  in  it.  Only 
folly, — slack,  fatuous,  feeble,  futile  folly.  It's  a  typical 
head.  D'you  notice  how  the  skull  begins  to  show  through 
the  flesh  padding  on  the  face  and  cheek-bone? ' 

'What  a  cold-blooded  barbarian  it  is!  Don't  hit  a 
woman  when  she's  down.  Can't  we  do  anything?  She 
was  simply  dropping  with  starvation.  She  almost  fell 
into  my  arms,  and  when  she  got  to  the  food  she  ate  like  a 
wild  beast.     It  was  horrible.' 


DC  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  159 

'I  can  give  her  money,  which  she  would  probably 
spend  in  drinks.     Is  she  going  to  sleep  for  ever? ' 

The  girl  opened  her  eyes  and  glared  at  the  men  between 
terror  and  effrontery. 

'Feeling  better?'  said  Torpenhow. 

*Yes.  Thank  you.  There  aren't  many  gentlemen 
that  are  as  kind  as  you  are.     Thank  you.' 

'When  did  you  leave  service?'  said  Dick,  who  had 
been  watching  the  scarred  and  chapped  hands. 

'How  did  you  know  I  was  in  service?  I  was.  General 
servant.     I  didn't  Hke  it.' 

'And  how  do  you  like  being  your  own  mistress?' 

'Do  I  look  as  if  I  liked  it?' 

'I  suppose  not.  One  moment.  Would  you  be  good 
enough  to  turn  your  face  to  the  window? ' 

The  girl  obeyed,  and  Dick  watched  her  face  keenly, — 
so  keenly  that  she  made  as  if  to  hide  behind  Torpen- 
how. 

'The  eyes  have  it,'  said  Dick,  walking  up  and  down. 
'They  are  superb  eyes  for  my  business.  And,  after  all, 
every  head  depends  on  the  eyes.  This  has  been  sent  from 
heaven  to  make  up  for^ — what  was  taken  away.  Now  the 
weekly  strain's  off  my  shoulders,  I  can  get  to  work  in 
earnest.  Evidently  sent  from  heaven.  Yes.  Raise 
your  chin  a  little,  please.' 

'Gently,  old  man,  gently.  You're  scaring  somebody 
out  of  her  wits,'  said  Torpenhow,  who  could  see  the  girl 
trembling. 

'  Don't  let  him  hit  me !    Oh,  please  don't  let  him  hit  me ! 


i6o  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAH^ED  chap. 

I've  been  hit  cruel  to-day  because  I  spoke  to  a  man. 
Don't  let  him  look  at  me  Uke  that!  He's  reg'lar  wicked, 
that  one.  Don't  let  him  look  at  me  like  that,  neither! 
Oh,  I  feel  as  if  I  hadn't  nothing  on  when  he  looks  at  me 
like  that!' 

The  overstrained  nerves  in  the  frail  body  gave  way,  and 
the  girl  wept  like  a  Uttle  child  and  began  to  scream,  Dick 
threw  open  the  window,  and  Torpenhow  flung  the  door 
back. 

'There  you  are,'  said  Dick,  soothingly.  'My  friend 
here  can  call  for  a  poUceman,  and  you  can  run  through 
that  door.     Nobody  is  going  to  hurt  you.' 

The  girl  sobbed  convulsively  for  a  few  minutes,  and 
then  tried  to  laugh. 

'Nothing  in  the  world  to  hurt  you.  Now  Hsten  to  me 
for  a  minute.  I'm  what  they  call  an  artist  by  profession. 
You  know  what  artists  do? ' 

'  They  draw  the  things  in  red  and  black  ink  on  the  pop- 
shop labels.' 

'I  dare  say.  I  haven't  risen  to  pop-shop  labels  yet. 
Those  are  done  by  the  Academicians.  I  want  to  draw 
your  head.' 

'What  for?' 

'Because  it's  pretty.  That  is  why  you  will  come  to 
the  room  across  the  landing  three  times  a  week  at  eleven 
in  the  morning,  and  I'll  give  you  three  quid  a  week  just 
for  sitting  still  and  being  drawn.  And  there's  a  quid  on 
account.' 

'For  nothing?     Oh,  my!'     The  girl  turned  the  sover- 


IX  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAH^ED  i6i 

eign  in  her  hand,  and  with  more  foolish  tears,  'Ain't 
neither  o'  you  two  gentlemen  afraid  of  my  bilking  you? ' 

'No.  Only  ugly  girls  do  that.  Try  and  remember 
this  place.     And,  by  the  way,  what's  your  name? ' 

'I'm  Bessie,^ — Bessie It's  no  use  giving  the  rest. 

Bessie  Broke, — Stone-broke,  if  you  like.     What's  your 
names?     But  there,— no  one  ever  gives  the  real  ones.' 

Dick  consulted  Torpenhow  with  his  eyes. 

'My  name's  Heldar,  and  my  friend's  called  Torpenhow; 
and  you  must  be  sure  to  come  here.  Where  do  you 
Hve?' 

'  South-the-water, — one  room, — five  and  sixpence  a 
week.  Aren't  you  making  fun  of  me  about  that  three 
quid?' 

'You'll  see  later  on.  And,  Bessie,  next  time  you  come, 
remember,  you  needn't  wear  that  paint.  It's  bad  for  the 
skin,  and  I  have  all  the  colours  you'll  be  likely  to  need.' 

Bessie  withdrew,  scrubbing  her  cheek  with  a  ragged 
pocket-handkerchief.    The  two  men  looked  at  each  other. 

'You're  a  m^an,'  said  Torpenhow. 

'I'm  afraid  I've  been  a  fool.  It  isn't  our  business  to 
run  about  the  earth  reforming  Bessie  Brokes.  And  a 
woman  of  any  kind  has  no  right  on  this  landing.' 

'Perhaps  she  won't  come  back.' 

'  She  will  if  she  tliinks  she  can  get  food  and  warmth  here. 
I  know  she  will,  worse  luck.  But  remember,  old  man,  she 
isn't  a  woman:  she's  my  model;  and  be  careful.' 

'The  idea!  She's  a  dissolute  little  scarecrow, — a 
gutter-snippet  and  nothing  more.' 


i62  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  chap. 

'  So  you  think.  Wait  till  she  has  been  fed  a  little  and 
freed  from  fear.  That  fair  type  recovers  itself  very 
quickly.  You  won't  know  her  in  a  week  or  two,  when 
that  abject  fear  has  died  out  of  her  eyes.  She'll  be  too 
happy  and  smiling  for  my  purposes.' 

'But  surely  you're  taking  her  out  of  charity? — to  please 
me?' 

'  I'm  not  in  the  habit  of  playing  with  hot  coals  to  please 
anybody.  She  has  been  sent  from  heaven,  as  I  may  have 
remarked  before,  to  help  me  with  my  MelancoHa.' 

'Never  heard  a  word  about  the  lady  before.' 

'What's  the  use  of  having  a  friend,  if  you  must  sling 
your  notions  at  him  in  words?  You  ought  to  know  what 
I'm  thinkhig  about.    You've  heard  me  grunt  lately?' 

'Even  so;  but  grunts  mean  anything  in  your  language, 
from  bad  'baccy  to  wicked  dealers.  And  I  don't  think 
I've  been  much  in  your  confidence  for  some  time.' 

'  It  was  a  high  and  soulful  grunt.  You  ought  to  have 
understood  that  it  meant  the  Melancolia.'  Dick  walked 
Torpenhow  up  and  down  the  room,  keeping  silence. 
Then  he  smote  him  in  the  ribs.  'Now  don't  you  see  it? 
Bessie's  abject  futility,  and  the  terror  in  her  eyes,  welded 
on  to  one  or  two  details  in  the  way  of  sorrow  that  have 
come  under  my  experience  lately.  Likewise  some  orange 
and  black, — two  keys  of  each.  But  I  can't  explain  on  an 
empty  stomach.' 

'It  sounds  mad  enough.  You'd  better  stick  to  your 
soldiers,  Dick,  instead  of  maundering  about  heads  and 
eyes  and  experiences.' 


IX  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAH^ED  163 

'Think  so?'  Dick  began  to  dance  on  his  heels,  sing- 
ing— 

'They're  as  proud  as  a  turkey  when  they  hold  the  ready  cash, 

You  ought  to  'ear  the  way  they  laugh  an'  joke; 
They  are  tricky  an'  they're  funny  when  they've  got  the  ready  money, — 

Ow!  but  see  'em  when  they're  all  stone-broke.' 

Then  he  sat  down  to  pour  out  his  heart  to  Maisie  in  a 
four-sheet  letter  of  counsel  and  encouragement,  and 
registered  an  oath  that  he  would  get  to  work  with  an  un- 
divided heart  as  soon  as  Bessie  should  reappear. 

The  girl  kept  her  appointment  unpainted  and  un- 
adorned, afraid  and  overbold  by  turns.  When  she  found 
that  she  was  merely  expected  to  sit  still,  she  grew  calmer, 
and  criticised  the  appointments  of  the  studio  with  free- 
dom and  some  point.  She  liked  the  warmth  and  the  com- 
fort and  the  release  from  fear  of  physical  pain.  Dick 
made  two  or  three  studies  of  her  head  in  monochrome,  but 
the  actual  notion  of  the  Melancoha  would  not  arrive. 

'What  a  mess  you  keep  your  things  in!'  said  Bessie, 
some  days  later,  when  she  felt  herself  thoroughly  at  home. 
'  I  s'pose  your  clothes  are  just  as  bad.  Gentlemen  never 
think  what  buttons  and  tape  are  made  for.' 

'I  buy  things  to  wear,  and  wear  'em  till  they  go  to 
pieces.     I  don't  know  what  Torpenhow  does.' 

Bessie  made  diHgent  inquiry  in  the  latter's  room,  and 
unearthed  a  bale  of  disreputable  socks.  '  Some  of  these 
I'll  mend  now,'  she  said,  'and  some  I'll  take  home. 
D'you  know,  I  sit  all  day  long  at  home  doing  nothing, 


i64  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  cbaj?. 

Just  like  a  lady,  and  no  more  noticing  them  other  girls  in 
the  house  than  if  they  was  so  many  flies.  I  don't  have 
any  unnecessary  words,  but  I  put  'em  down  quick,  I  can 
tell  you,  when  they  talk  to  me.  No;  it's  quite  nice  these 
days.  I  lock  my  door,  and  they  can  only  call  me  names 
through  the  keyhole,  and  I  sit  inside,  just  Uke  a  lady, 
mending  socks.  Mr.  Torpenhow  wears  his  socks  out 
both  ends  at  once.' 

'Three  quid  a  week  from  me,  and  the  delights  of  my 
society.  No  socks  mended.  Nothing  from  Torp  except 
a  nod  on  the  landing  now  and  again,  and  all  his  socks 
mended.  Bessie  is  very  much  a  woman,'  thought  Dick; 
and  he  looked  at  her  between  hah-shut  eyes.  Food  and 
rest  had  transformed  the  girl,  as  Dick  knew  they  would. 

'What  are  you  looking  at  me  Hke  that  for?'  she  said 
quickly.  'Don't.  You  look  reg'lar  bad  when  you  look 
that  way.     You  don't  think  much  o'  me,  do  you? ' 

'That  depends  on  how  3^ou  behave.' 

Bessie  behaved  beautifully.  Only  it  was  difficult  at 
the  end  of  a  sitting  to  bid  her  go  out  into  the  gray  streets. 
She  very  much  preferred  the  studio  and  a  big  chair  by  the 
stove,  with  some  socks  in  her  lap  as  an  excuse  for  delay. 
Then  Torpenhow  would  come  in,  and  Bessie  would  be 
moved  to  tell  strange  and  wonderful  stories  of  her  past, 
and  still  stranger  ones  of  her  present  improved  circum- 
stances. She  would  make  them  tea  as  though  she  had  a 
right  to  make  it;  and  once  or  twice  on  these  occasions 
Dick  caught  Torpenhow's  eyes  fixed  on  the  trim  little 
figure,  and  because  Bessie's  flittings  about  the  room  made 


DC  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  165 

Dick  ardently  long  for  Maisie,  he  realised  whither  Tor- 
penhow's  thoughts  were  tending.  And  Bessie  was  ex- 
ceedingly careful  of  the  condition  of  Torpenhow's  linen. 
She  spoke  very  little  to  him,  but  sometimes  they  talked 
together  on  the  landing. 

'I  was  a  great  fool/  Dick  said  to  himself.  'I  know 
what  red  firelight  looks  Hke  when  a  man's  tramping 
through  a  strange  town;  and  ours  is  a  lonely,  selfish  sort  of 
life  at  the  best.  I  wonder  Maisie  doesn't  feel  that  some- 
times. But  I  can't  order  Bessie  away.  That's  the 
worst  of  beginning  things.  One  never  knows  where  they 
stop.' 

One  evening,  after  a  sitting  prolonged  to  the  last  limit 
of  the  light,  Dick  was  roused  from  a  nap  by  a  broken 
voice  in  Torpenhow's  room.  He  jumped  to  his  feet. 
'Now  what  ought  I  to  do?  It  looks  fooKsh  to  go  in. — 
Oh,  bless  you,  Binkie!'  The  Kttle  terrier  thrust  Torpen- 
how's door  open  with  his  nose  and  came  out  to  take 
possession  of  Dick's  chair.  The  door  s^vung  wide  un- 
heeded, and  Dick  across  the  landing  could  see  Bessie  in 
the  half-light  making  her  little  supplication  to  Torpen- 
how.  She  was  kneeling  by  his  side,  and  her  hands  were 
clasped  across  his  knee. 

'I  know, — I  know,'  she  said  thickly.  "Tisn't  right  o' 
me  to  do  this,  but  I  can't  help  it;  and  you  were  so  kind, — 
so  kind;  and  you  never  took  any  notice  o'  me.  And  I've 
mended  all  your  things  so  carefully, — I  did.  Oh,  please, 
'tisn't  as  if  I  was  asking  you  to  marry  me.  I  wouldn't 
think  of  it.     But  cou — couldn't  you  take  and  live  with  me 


i66  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  chap, 

till  Miss  Right  comes  along?  I'm  only  Miss  Wrong,  I 
know,  but  I'd  work  my  hands  to  the  bare  bone  for  you. 
And  I'm  not  ugly  to  look  at.     Say  you  will ! ' 

Dick  hardly  recognised  Torpenhow's  voice  in  reply — 

'But  look  here.  It's  no  use.  I'm  Kable  to  be  ordered 
off  anywhere  at  a  minute's  notice  if  a  war  breaks  out.  At 
a  minute's  notice — dear.' 

'What  does  that  matter?  Until  you  go,  then.  Until 
you  go.  'Tisn't  much  I'm  asking,  and — you  don't  know 
how  good  I  can  cook.'  She  had  put  an  arm  round  his 
neck  and  was  drawing  his  head  down. 

'Until— I— go,  then.' 

'  Torp,'  said  Dick,  across  the  landing.  He  could  hardly 
steady  his  voice.  'Come  here  a  minute,  old  man.  I'm 
in  trouble.' — 'Heaven  send  he'll  Ksten  to  me!'  There 
was  something  very  like  an  oath  from  Bessie's  Hps.  She 
was  afraid  of  Dick,  and  disappeared  down  the  staircase 
in  panic,  but  it  seemed  an  age  before  Torpenhow  entered 
the  studio.  He  went  to  the  mantelpiece,  buried  his  head 
on  his  arms,  and  groaned  like  a  wounded  bull. 

'  WTiat  the  devil  right  have  you  to  interfere? '  he  said,  at 
last. 

'Who's  interfering  with  which?  Your  own  sense  told 
you  long  ago  you  couldn't  be  such  a  fool.  It  was  a  tough 
rack,  St.  Anthony,  but  you're  all  right  now.' 

'I  oughtn't  to  have  seen  her  moving  about  these  rooms 
as  if  they  belonged  to  her.  That's  what  upset  me.  It 
gives  a  lonely  man  a  sort  of  hankering,  doesn't  it?'  said 
Torpenhow,  piteously. 


EX  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAHLED  167 

'Now  you  talk  sense.  It  does.  But,  since  you  aren't 
in  a  condition  to  discuss  the  disadvantages  of  double 
housekeeping,  do  you  know  what  you're  going  to  do? ' 

'I  don't.     I  wish  I  did.' 

'You're  going  away  for  a  season  on  a  brilliant  tour  to 
regain  tone.  You're  going  to  Brighton,  or  Scarborough, 
or  Pravvde  Point,  to  see  the  ships  go  by.  And  }'Ou're 
going  at  once.  Isn't  it  odd?  I'll  take  care  of  Binkie,  but 
out  you  go  immediately.  Never  resist  the  devil.  He 
holds  the  bank.     Fly  from  liim.     Pack  your  things  and 

go.' 

'  I  believe  you're  right.     Where  shall  I  go? ' 

'And  you  call  yourself  a  special  correspondent!  Pack 
first  and  inquire  afterwards.' 

An  hour  later  Torpenhow  was  despatched  into  the 
night  in  a  hansom.  'You'll  probably  think  of  some 
place  to  go  to  while  you're  moving,'  said  Dick.  'Go  to 
Euston,  to  begin  with,  and — oh  yes — get  drunk  to-night.' 

He  returned  to  the  studio,  and  lighted  more  candles, 
for  he  found  the  room  very  dark. 

'Oh,  you  Jezebel!  you  futile  little  Jezebel!  Won't  you 
hate  me  to-m.orrow! — Binkie,  come  here.' 

Binkie  turned  over  on  his  back  on  the  hearthrug,  and 
Dick  stirred  him  with  a  meditative  foot. 

'  I  said  she  was  not  immoral.  I  was  wrong.  She  said 
she  could  cook.  That  showed  premeditated  sin.  Oh, 
Binkie,  if  you  are  a  man  you  will  go  to  perdition;  but  if 
you  are  a  woman,  and  say  that  you  can  cook,  you  will  go 
to  a  much  worse  place.' 


CHAPTER  X 

What's  yon  that  follows  at  my  side? — 

The  foe  that  ye  must  fight,  my  lord. — 
That  hirples  swift  as  I  can  ride? — 

The  shadow  of  the  night,  my  lord. — 
Then  wheel  my  horse  against  the  foe! — 

He's  down  and  overpast,  my  lord. 
Ye  war  against  the  sunset  glow: 

The  darkness  gathers  fast,  my  lord. 

— The  Fight  of  Heriofs  Ford. 

'This  is  a  cheerful  life/  said  Dick,  some  days  later. 
'Torp's  away;  Bessie  hates  me;  I  can't  get  at  the  notion  of 
the  Melancolia;  Maisie's  letters  are  scrappy;  and  I  believe 
I  have  indigestion.  What  gives  a  man  pains  across  his 
head  and  spots  before  his  eyes,  Binkie?  Shall  us  take 
some  Hver  pills? ' 

Dick  had  just  gone  through  a  lively  scene  with  Bessie. 
She  had  for  the  fiftieth  time  reproached  him  for  sending 
Torpenhow  away.  She  explained  her  enduring  hatred 
for  Dick,  and  made  it  clear  to  him  that  she  only  sat  for  the 
sake  of  his  money.  'And  Mr.  Torpenhow's  ten  times  a 
better  man  than  you,'  she  concluded. 

'He  is.  That's  why  he  went  away.  /  should  have 
stayed  and  made  love  to  you.' 

i68 


CHAP.  X  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  169 

The  girl  sat  with  her  chin  on  her  hand,  scowling.  'To 
me!  I'd  like  to  catch  you!  If  I  wasn't  afraid  o'  being 
hung  I'd  kill  you.  That's  what  I'd  do.  D'you  believe 
me?' 

Dick  smiled  wearily.  It  is  not  pleasant  to  live  in  the 
company  of  a  notion  that  will  not  work  out,  a  fox-terrier 
that  cannot  talk,  and  a  woman  who  talks  too  much.  He 
would  have  answered,  but  at  that  moment  there  unrolled 
itself  from  one  corner  of  the  studio  a  veil,  as  it  were,  of  the 
filmiest  gauze.  He  rubbed  his  eyes,  but  the  gray  haze 
would  not  go, 

'This  is  disgraceful  indigestion.  Binkie,  we  will  go  to  a 
medicine-man.  We  can't  have  our  eyes  interfered  with, 
for  by  these  we  get  our  bread;  also  mutton-chop  bones 
for  httle  dogs.' 

The  doctor  was  an  affable  local  practitioner  with  white 
hair,  and  he  said  nothing  till  Dick  began  to  describe  the 
gray  film  in  the  studio. 

'  We  all  want  a  httle  patching  and  repairing  from  time 
to  time,'  he  chirped.  'Like  a  ship,  my  dear  sir,— exactly 
like  a  ship.  Sometimes  the  hull  is  out  of  order,  and  we 
consult  the  surgeon;  sometimes  the  rigging,  and  then  I 
advise;  sometimes  the  engines,  and  we  go  to  the  brain- 
specialist;  sometimes  the  look-out  on  the  bridge  is  tired, 
and  then  we  see  an  ocuhst.  I  should  recommend  you  to 
see  an  oculist.  A  Httle  patching  and  repairing  from  time 
to  time  is  all  we  want.     An  ocuhst,  by  all  means.' 

Dick  sought  an  oculist, — the  best  in  London.  He  was 
certain  that  the  local  practitioner  did  not  know  anything 


I70  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAH^ED  chap. 

about  his  trade,  and  more  certain  that  Maisie  would  laugh 
at  him  if  he  were  forced  to  wear  spectacles. 

'  I've  neglected  the  warnings  of  my  lord  the  stomach  too 
long.  Hence  these  spots  before  the  eyes,  Binkie.  I  can 
see  as  well  as  I  ever  could.' 

As  he  entered  the  dark  hall  that  led  to  the  consulting- 
room  a  man  cannoned  against  him.  Dick  saw  the  face  as 
it  hurried  out  into  the  street. 

'  That's  the  writer- type.  He  has  the  same  modelHng  of 
the  forehead  as  Torp.  He  looks  very  sick.  Probably 
heard  something  he  didn't  Hke.' 

Even  as  he  thought,  a  great  fear  came  upon  Dick,  a  fear 
that  made  him  hold  his  breath  as  he  walked  into  the 
occulist's  waiting  room,  with  the  heavy  carved  furniture, 
the  dark-green  paper,  and  the  sober-hued  prints  on  the 
wall.  He  recognised  a  reproduction  of  one  of  his  own 
sketches. 

Many  people  were  waiting  their  turn  before  him.  His 
eye  was  caught  by  a  flaming  red-and-gold  Christmas- 
carol  book.  Little  children  came  to  that  eye-doctor,  and 
they  needed  large-t>^e  amusement. 

'That's  idolatrous  bad  Art,'  he  said,  drawing  the  book 
towards  himself.  'From  the  anatomy  of  the  angels,  it 
has  been  made  in  Germany.'  He  opened  it  mechanically, 
and  there  leaped  to  his  eyes  a  verse  printed  in  red  ink — 

The  next  good  joy  that  Mary  had, 

It  was  the  joy  of  three, 
To  see  her  good  Son  Jesus  Christ 

Making  the  blind  to  see; 


X  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  171 

Making  the  blind  to  see,  good  Lord, 

And  happy  may  we  be. 
Praise  Father,  Son,  and  Holy  Ghost 

To  all  eternity! 

Dick  read  and  re-read  the  verse  till  his  turn  came,  and 
the  doctor  was  bending  above  him  seated  in  an  arm-chair. 
The  blaze  of  the  gas-microscope  in  his  eyes  made  him 
wince.  The  doctor's  hand  touched  the  scar  of  the  sword- 
cut  on  Dick's  head,  and  Dick  explained  briefly  how  he  had 
come  by  it.  When  the  flame  was  removed,  Dick  saw  the 
doctor's  face,  and  the  fear  came  upon  him  again.  The 
doctor  wrapped  himself  in  a  mist  of  words.  Dick  caught 
allusions  to  'scar,'  'frontal  bone,'  'optic  nerve,'  'extrem^e 
caution,'  and  the  'avoidance  of  mental  anxiety.' 

'Verdict?'  he  said  faintly.  'My  business  is  painting, 
and  I  daren't  waste  time.     What  do  you  make  of  it? ' 

Again  the  whirl  of  words,  but  this  time  they  conveyed  a 
meaning. 

'  Can  you  give  me  anything  to  drink? ' 

Many  sentences  were  pronounced  in  that  darkened 
room,  and  the  prisoners  often  needed  cheering.  Dick 
found  a  glass  of  liqueur  brandy  in  his  hand. 

'As  far  as  I  can  gather,'  he  said,  coughing  above  the 
spirit,  'you  call  it  decay  of  the  optic  nerve,  or  something, 
and  therefore  hopeless.  What  is  my  time-hmit,  avoiding 
all  strain  and  worry? ' 

'Perhaps  one  year.' 

'  IMy  God !    And  if  I  do  not  take  care  of  myself? ' 

'I  really  could  not  say.     One  cannot  ascertain  the 


172  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAH^ED  chap. 

exact  amount  of  injury  inflicted  by  the  sword-cut.  The 
scar  is  an  old  one,  and — exposure  to  the  strong  light  of  the 
desert,  did  you  say? — with  excessive  appHcation  to  fine 
work?     I  really  could  not  say.' 

'  I  beg  your  pardon,  but  it  has  come  without  any  warn- 
ing. If  you  will  let  me,  I'll  sit  here  for  a  minute,  and 
then  I'll  go.  You  have  been  very  good  in  telling  me  the 
truth.  Without  any  warning;  without  any  warning. 
Thanks.' 

Dick  went  into  the  street,  and  was  rapturously  re- 
ceived by  Binkie.  'We've  got  it  very  badly,  Httle  dog! 
Just  as  badly  as  we  can  get  it.  We'll  go  to  the  Park  to 
tliink  it  out.' 

They  headed  for  a  certain  tree  that  Dick  knew  well,  and 
they  sat  down  to  think,  because  his  legs  were  trembhng 
under  Mm  and  there  was  cold  fear  at  the  pit  of  his 
stomach. 

'How  could  it  have  come  without  any  warning?  It's 
as  sudden  as  being  shot.  It's  the  living  death,  Binkie. 
We're  to  be  shut  up  in  the  dark  in  one  year  if  we're  care- 
ful, and  we  shan't  see  anybody,  and  we  shall  never  have 
anything  we  w^ant,  not  though  we  Hve  to  be  a  hundred.' 
Binkie  wagged  his  tail  joyously.  '  Binkie,  we  must  think. 
Let's  see  how  it  feels  to  be  bhnd.'  Dick  shut  his  eyes,  and 
flaming  commas  and  Catherine-wheels  floated  inside  the 
lids.  Yet  when  he  looked  across  the  Park  the  scope  of  his 
vision  was  not  contracted.  He  could  see  perfectly,  until  a 
procession  of  slow-wheeHng  fireworks  defiled  across  his 
eyeballs. 


X  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  173 

'Little  dorglums,  we  aren't  at  all  well.  Let's  go  home. 
If  only  Torp  were  back,  now ! ' 

But  Torpenhow  was  in  the  south  of  England,  inspecting 
dockyards  in  the  company  of  the  Nilghai.  His  letters 
were  brief  and  full  of  mystery. 

Dick  had  never  asked  anybody  to  help  him  in  his  joys 
or  his  sorrows.  He  argued,  in  the  loneliness  of  the  studio, 
henceforward  to  be  decorated  with  a  film  of  gray  gauze  in 
one  corner,  that,  if  his  fate  were  blindness,  all  the  Torpen- 
hows  in  the  world  could  not  save  him.  'I  can't  call  him 
off  his  trip  to  sit  down  and  sympathise  with  me.  I  must 
pull  through  the  business  alone,'  he  said.  He  was  lying 
on  the  sofa,  eating  his  moustache  and  wondering  what  the 
darkness  of  the  night  would  be  Hke.  Then  came  to  his 
mJnd  the  memory  of  a  quaint  scene  in  the  Soudan.  A 
soldier  had  been  nearly  hacked  in  two  by  a  broad-bladed 
Arab  spear.  For  one  instant  the  man  felt  no  pain. 
Looking  down,  he  saw  that  his  life-blood  was  going  from 
him.  The  stupid  bewilderment  on  his  face  was  so  in- 
tensely comic  that  both  Dick  and  Torpenhow,  still  pant- 
ing and  unstrung  from  a  fight  for  life,  had  roared  with 
laughter,  in  which  the  man  seemed  as  if  he  would  join,  but, 
as  his  lips  parted  in  a  sheepish  grin,  the  agony  of  death 
came  upon  him,  and  he  pitched  grunting  at  their  feet. 
Dick  laughed  again,  remembering  the  horror.  It  seemed 
so  exactly  like  his  own  case.  'But  I  have  a  little  more 
time  allowed  m.e,'  he  said.  He  paced  up  and  down 
the  room,  quietly  at  first,  but  afterwards  with  the  hurried 
feet  of  fear.     It  was  as  though  a  black  shadow  stood 


174  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  chap. 

at  his  elbow  and  urged  him  to  go  forward;  and  there 
were  only  weaving  circles  and  floating  pin-dots  before  his 
eyes. 

'We  must  be  calm,  Binkie;  we  must  be  calm.'  He 
talked  aloud  for  the  sake  of  distraction.  'This  isn't  nice 
at  all.  What  shall  we  do?  We  must  do  something.  Our 
time  is  short.  I  shouldn't  have  believed  that  this  morn- 
ing; but  now  things  are  different.  Binkie,  where  was 
Moses  when  the  light  went  out?' 

Binkie  smiled  from  ear  to  ear,  as  a  well-bred  terrier 
should,  but  made  no  suggestion. 

' "  Were  there  but  world  enough  and  time.  This  co3aiess, 
Binkie,  were  no  crime.  .  .  .  But  at  my  back  I  always 
hear "'  He  wiped  his  forehead,  which  was  un- 
pleasantly damp.  'What  can  I  do?  What  can  I  do?  I 
haven't  any  notions  left,  and  I  can't  think  connectedly, 
but  I  must  do  something,  or  I  shall  go  off  my  head.' 

The  hurried  walk  recommenced,  Dick  stopping  every 
now  and  again  to  drag  forth  long-neglected  canvases  and 
old  note-books;  for  he  turned  to  his  work  by  instinct, 
as  a  thing  that  could  not  fail.  'You  won't  do,  and 
you  won't  do,'  he  said,  at  each  inspection.  'No  more 
soldiers.  I  couldn't  paint  'em.  Sudden  death  comes 
home  too  nearly,  and  this  is  battle  and  murder  both 
for  me.* 

The  day  was  faiUng,  and  Dick  thought  for  a  moment 
that  the  twilight  of  the  blind  had  come  upon  him  un- 
awares. 'Allah  Almighty!'  he  cried  despairingly,  'help 
me  through  the  time  of  waiting,  and  I  won't  whine  when 


X  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  175 

my  punishment  comes.  What  can  I  do  now,  before  the 
light  goes? ' 

There  was  no  answer.  Dick  waited  till  he  could  regain 
some  sort  of  control  over  himself.  His  hands  were  shak- 
ing, and  he  prided  himself  on  their  steadiness;  he  could 
feel  that  his  lips  were  quivering,  and  the  sweat  was  run- 
ning down  his  face.  He  was  lashed  by  fear,  driven  for- 
ward by  the  desire  to  get  to  work  at  once  and  accompKsh 
something,  and  maddened  by  the  refusal  of  his  brain  to  do 
more  than  repeat  the  news  that  he  was  about  to  go  bhnd. 
'It's  a  humihating  exhibition,'  he  thought,  'and  I'm  glad 
Torp  isn't  here  to  see.  The  doctor  said  I  was  to  avoid 
mental  worry.     Come  here  and  let  me  pet  you,  Binkie.' 

The  Httle  dog  yelped  because  Dick  nearly  squeezed  the 
bark  out  of  him.  Then  he  heard  the  man  speaking  in  the 
twilight,  and,  doglike,  understood  that  his  trouble  stood 
off  from  him — 

'Allah  is  good,  Binkie.  Not  quite  so  gentle  as  we  could 
wish,  but  we'll  discuss  that  later.  I  think  I  see  my  way  to 
it  now.  All  those  studies  of  Bessie's  head  were  nonsense, 
and  they  nearly  brought  your  master  into  a  scrape.  I 
hold  the  notion  now  as  clear  as  crystal, — "the  Melancolia 
that  transcends  all  wit."  There  shall  be  Maisie  in  that 
head,  because  I  shall  never  get  JMaisie;  and  Bess,  of 
course,  because  she  knows  all  about  Melancolia,  though 
she  doesn't  know  she  knows;  and  there  shall  be  somie 
drawing  in  it,  and  it  shall  all  end  up  with  a  laugh.  That's 
for  myself.  Shall  she  giggle  or  grin?  No,  she  shall 
laugh  right  out  of  the  canvas,  and  every  man  and  woman 


176  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAH^ED  chap. 

that  ever  had  a  sorrow  of  their  own  shall — what  is  it  the 
poem  says? — 

'Understand  the  speech  and  feel  a  stir 
Of  fellowship  in  aU  disastrous  fight. 

"In  all  disastrous  fight"?  That's  better  tlian  painting 
the  thing  merely  to  pique  Maisie.  I  can  do  it  now  be- 
cause I  have  it  inside  me.  Binkie,  I'm  going  to  hold  you 
up  by  your  tail.     You're  an  omen.     Come  here.' 

Binkie  swung  head  downward  for  a  moment  without 
speaking. 

'Rather  like  holding  a  guinea-pig;  but  you're  a  brave 
Uttle  dog,  and  you  don't  yelp  when  you're  hung  up.  It  is 
an  omen.' 

Binkie  went  to  his  own  chair,  and  as  often  as  he  looked 
saw  Dick  walking  up  and  down,  rubbing  his  hands  and 
chuckUng.  That  night  Dick  wrote  a  letter  to  Maisie  full 
of  the  tenderest  regard  for  her  health,  but  saying  very 
little  about  his  own,  and  dreamed  of  the  Melancolia  to  be 
born.  Not  till  morning  did  he  remember  that  something 
might  happen  to  him  in  the  future. 

He  fell  to  work,  whistling  softly,  and  was  swallowed  up 
in  the  clean,  clear  joy  of  creation,  which  does  not  come  to 
man  too  often,  lest  he  should  consider  himself  the  equal  of 
his  God,  and  so  refuse  to  die  at  the  appointed  time.  He 
forgot  Maisie,  Torpenhow,  and  Binkie  at  his  feet,  but  re- 
membered to  stir  Bessie,  who  needed  very  httle  stirring, 
into  a  tremendous  rage,  that  he  might  watch  the  smoul- 
dering lights  in  her  eyes.     He   threw  himself  without 


X  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  177 

reservation  into  his  work,  and  did  not  think  of  the  doom 
that  was  to  overtake  him,  for  he  was  possessed  with  his 
notion,  and  the  things  of  tliis  world  had  no  power  upon 
him. 

'You're  pleased  to-day,'  said  Bessie. 

Dick  waved  his  mahl-stick  in  mystic  circles  and  went  to 
the  sideboard  for  a  drink.  In  the  evening,  when  the 
exaltation  of  the  day  had  died  down,  he  went  to  the  side- 
board again,  and  after  some  visits  became  convinced  that 
the  eye-doctor  was  a  Har,  since  he  could  still  see  every- 
thing very  clearly.  He  was  of  opinion  that  he  would  even 
make  a  home  for  IVIaisie,  and  that  whether  she  Uked  it  or 
not  she  should  be  his  wife.  The  m.ood  passed  next 
morning,  but  the  sideboard  and  all  upon  it  remained  for 
his  comfort.  Aga'n  he  set  to  work,  and  his  eyes  troubled 
him  with  spots  and  dashes  and  blurs  till  he  had  taken 
counsel  with  the  sideboard,  and  the  Melancolia  both  on 
the  canvas  and  in  his  own  mind  appeared  lovelier  than 
ever.  There  was  a  dehghtful  sense  of  irresponsibility 
upon  him,  such  as  they  feel  who  walking  among  their 
fellow-men  know  that  the  death-sentence  of  disease  is 
upon  them,  and,  seeing  that  fear  is  but  waste  of  the  little 
time  left,  are  riotously  happy.  The  days  passed  without 
event.  Bessie  arrived  punctually  always,  and,  though 
her  voice  seemed  to  Dick  to  com.e  from  a  distance,  her 
face  was  always  very  near.  The  Melancolia  began  to 
flame  on  the  canvas,  in  the  likeness  of  a  woman  who  had 
known  all  the  sorrow  in  the  world  and  was  laughing  at  it. 
It  was  true  that  the  corners  of  the  studio  draped  them- 


1 78  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  chap. 

selves  in  gray  film  and  retired  into  the  darkness,  that  the 
spots  in  his  eyes  and  the  pains  across  his  head  were  very 
troublesome,  and  that  Maisie's  letters  were  hard  to  read 
and  harder  still  to  answer.  He  could  not  tell  her  of  his 
trouble,  and  he  could  not  laugh  at  her  accounts  of  her  own 
Melancolia  which  was  always  going  to  be  finished.  But 
the  furious  days  of  toil  and  the  nights  of  wild  dreams 
made  amends  for  all,  and  the  sideboard  was  his  best 
friend  on  earth.  Bessie  was  singularly  dull.  She  used  to 
shriek  with  rage  when  Dick  stared  at  her  between  half- 
closed  eyes.  Now  she  sulked,  or  watched  him  with  dis- 
gust, saying  very  Httle. 

Torpenhow  had  been  absent  for  six  weeks.  An  in- 
coherent note  heralded  his  return.  'News!  great  news!' 
he  wrote.  'The  Nilghai  knows,  and  so  does  the  Keneu. 
We're  all  back  on  Thursday.  Get  lunch  and  clean  your 
accoutrements.' 

Dick  showed  Bessie  the  letter,  and  she  abused  him  for 
that  he  had  ever  sent  Torpenhow  away  and  ruined  her 
Hfe. 

'Well,'  said  Dick,  brutally,  'you're  better  as  you  are, 
instead  of  making  love  to  some  drunken  beast  in  the 
street.'  He  felt  that  he  had  rescued  Torpenhow  from 
great  temptation. 

'I  don't  know  if  that's  any  worse  than  sitting  to  a 
drunken  beast  in  a  studio.  You  haven't  been  sober  for 
three  weeks.  You've  been  soaking  the  whole  time;  and 
yet  you  pretend  you're  better  than  me!' 

'What  d'you  mean?'  said  Dick. 


X  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  179 

'  Mean !    You'll  see  when  Mr.  Torpenhow  comes  back.' 

It  was  not  long  to  wait.  Torpenhow  met  Bessie  on  the 
staircase  without  a  sign  of  feeling.  He  had  news  that 
was  more  to  him  than  many  Bessies,  and  the  Keneu  and 
the  Nilghai  were  trampKng  behind  him,  calling  for  Dick. 

'Drinking  like  a  fish,'  Bessie  whispered.  'He's  been  at 
it  for  nearly  a  month.'  She  followed  the  men  stealthily 
to  hear  judgment  done. 

They  came  into  the  studio,  rejoicing,  to  be  welcomed 
over  effusively  by  a  drawn,  lined,  shrunken,  haggard 
wreck, — unshaven,  blue-white  about  the  nostrils,  stoop- 
ing in  the  shoulders,  and  peering  under  his  eyebrows 
nervously.  The  drink  had  been  at  work  as  steadily  as 
Dick. 

'Is  this  you?'  said  Torpenhow. 

'All  that's  left  of  me.  Sit  down.  Binkie's  quite  well, 
and  I've  been  doing  some  good  work.'  He  reeled  where 
he  stood. 

'  You've  done  some  of  the  worst  work  you've  ever  done 
in  your  life.     Man  alive,  you're ' 

Torpenhow  turned  to  his  companions  appeaKngly,  and 
they  left  the  room  to  find  lunch  elsewhere.  Then  he 
spoke ;  but,  since  the  reproof  of  a  friend  is  much  too  sacred 
and  intimate  a  thing  to  be  printed,  and  since  Torpenhow 
used  figures  and  metaphors  which  were  unseemly,  and 
contempt  untranslatable,  it  will  never  be  known  what 
was  actually  said  to  Dick,  who  bhnked  and  winked  and 
picked  at  his  hands.  After  a  time  the  culprit  began  to 
feel  the  need  of  a  httle  self-respect.    He  was  quite  sure 


i8o  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  chap,  x 

that  he  had  not  in  any  way  departed  from  virtue,  and 
there  were  reasons,  too,  of  which  Torpenhow  knew  noth- 
ing.    He  would  explain. 

He  rose,  tried  to  straighten  his  shoulders,  and  spoke  to 
the  face  he  could  hardly  see. 

'  You  are  right,'  he  said.  '  But  I  am  right,  too.  After 
you  went  away  I  had  some  trouble  with  my  eyes.  So  I 
went  to  an  ocuHst,  and  he  turned  a  gasogene — I  mean  a 
gas-engine — into  my  eye.  That  was  very  long  ago.  He 
said,  "  Scar  on  the  head, — sword-cut  and  optic  nerve." 
Make  a  note  of  that.  So  I  am  going  bhnd.  I  have  some 
work  to  do  before  I  go  bhnd,  and  I  suppose  that  I  must  do 
it.  I  cannot  see  much  now,  but  I  can  see  best  when  I  am 
drunk.  I  did  not  know  I  was  drunk  till  I  was  told,  but  I 
must  go  on  v/ith  my  work.  If  you  want  to  see  it,  there  it 
is.'  He  pointed  to  the  all  but  finished  MelancoHa  and 
looked  for  applause. 

Torpenhow  said  nothing,  and  Dick  began  to  whimper 
feebly,  for  joy  at  seeing  Torpenhow  again,  for  grief  at 
misdeeds — if  indeed  they  were  misdeeds — that  made  Tor- 
penhow remote  and  unsympathetic,  and  for  childish 
vanity  hurt,  since  Torpenhow  had  not  given  a  word  of 
praise  to  his  wonderful  picture. 

Bessie  looked  through  the  keyhole  after  a  long  pause, 
and  saw  the  two  walking  up  and  down  as  usual,  Torpen- 
how's  hand  on  Dick's  shoulder.  Hereat  she  said  some- 
thing so  improper  that  it  shocked  even  Binkie,  who  was 
dribbhng  patiently  on  the  landing  with  the  hope  of  seeing 
his  master  again. 


CHAPTER  XI 

The  lark  will  make  her  hymn  to  God, 

The  partridge  call  her  brood, 
While  I  forget  the  heath  I  trod, 

The  fields  wherein  I  stood. 
'Tis  dule  to  know  not  night  from  morn, 

But  deeper  dule  to  know 
I  can  but  hear  the  hunter's  horn 

That  once  I  used  to  blow — The  Only  Son. 

It  was  the  third  day  after  Torpenhow's  return,  and  his 
heart  was  heavy. 

'  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  you  can't  see  to  work 
without  whiskey?     It's  generally  the  other  way  about.' 

'  Can  a  drunkard  swear  on  his  honour? '  said  Dick. 

*  Yes,  if  he  has  been  as  good  a  man  as  you.' 

'  Then  I  give  you  my  word  of  honour,'  said  Dick,  speak- 
ing hurriedly  through  parched  hps.  '  Old  man,  I  can 
hardly  see  your  face  now.  You've  kept  me  sober  for  two 
days, — if  I  ever  was  drunk, — and  I've  done  no  work. 
Don't  keep  me  back  any  more.  I  don't  know  when  my 
eyes  may  give  out.  The  spots  and  dots  and  the  pains  and 
things  are  crowding  worse  than  ever.  I  swear  I  can  see 
all  right  when  I'm — when  I'm  moderately  screwed,  as  you 
say.     Give  me  three  more  sittings  from  Bessie  and  all  the 

i8i 


i82  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  chap. 

— stuff  I  want,  and  the  picture  will  be  done.  I  can't  kill 
myself  in  three  days.  It  only  means  a  touch  of  D.  T.  at 
the  worst.' 

*  If  I  give  you  three  days  more  will  you  promise  me  to 
stop  work  and — the  other  thing,  whether  the  picture's 
finished  or  not? ' 

'I  can't.  You  don't  know  what  that  picture  means  to 
me.  But  surely  you  could  get  the  Nilghai  to  help  you, 
and  knock  me  down  and  tie  me  up.  I  shouldn't  fight  for 
the  whiskey,  but  I  should  for  the  work.' 

'Go  on,  then.  I  give  you  three  days;  but  you're 
nearly  breaking  my  heart.' 

Dick  returned  to  his  work,  toiling  as  one  possessed;  and 
the  yellow  devil  of  whiskey  stood  by  him  and  chased  away 
the  spots  in  his  eyes.  The  Melancolia  was  nearly  finished, 
and  was  all  or  nearly  all  that  he  had  hoped  she  would  be. 
Dick  jested  with  Bessie,  who  reminded  him  that  he  was  'a 
drunken  beast';  but  the  reproof  did  not  move  him. 

'You  can't  understand,  Bess.  We  are  in  sight  of  land 
now,  and  soon  we  shall  lie  back  and  think  about  what 
we've  done.  I'll  give  you  three  months'  pay  when  the 
picture's  finished,  and  next  time  I  have  any  more  work  in 
hand — but  that  doesn't  matter.  Won't  three  months' 
pay  make  you  hate  me  less? ' 

'No,  it  won't!  I  hate  you,  and  I'll  go  on  hating  you. 
Mr.  Torpenhow  won't  speak  to,  me  any  more.  He's 
always  looking  at  maps.' 

Bessie  did  not  say  that  she  had  again  laid  siege  to  Tor- 
penhow, or  that  at  the  end  of  her  passionate  pleading  he 


XI  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  183 

had  picked  her  up,  given  her  a  kiss,  and  put  her  outside 
the  door  with  the  recommendation  not  to  be  a  Kttle  fool. 
He  spent  most  of  his  time  in  the  company  of  the  Nilghai, 
and  their  talk  was  of  war  in  the  near  future,  the  hiring  of 
transports,  and  secret  preparations  among  the  dock- 
yards. He  did  not  wish  to  see  Dick  till  the  picture  was 
finished. 

'He's  doing  first-class  work,'  he  said  to  the  Nilghai, 
'and  it's  quite  out  of  his  regular  line.  But,  for  the  matter 
of  that,  so's  his  infernal  soaking.' 

'Never  mind.  Leave  him  alone.  When  he  has  come 
to  his  senses  again  w^e'll  carry  him  off  from  this  place  and 
let  him  breathe  clean  air.  Poor  Dick!  I  don't  envy  you, 
Torp,  when  his  eyes  fail.' 

'Yes,  it  will  be  a  case  of  "God  help  the  man  who's 
chained  to  our  Davie."  The  worst  is  that  we  don't  know 
when  it  will  happen ;  and  I  beheve  the  uncertainty  and  the 
waiting  have  sent  Dick  to  the  whiskey  more  than  any- 
thing else.' 

'  How  the  Avah  who  cut  his  head  open  would  grin  if  he 
knew!' 

'He's  at  perfect  liberty  to  grin  if  he  can.  He's  dead. 
That's  poor  consolation  now.' 

In  the  afternoon  of  the  third  day  Torpenhow  heard 
Dick  calling  for  him.  'All  finished!'  he  shouted.  'I've 
done  it!  Come  in!  Isn't  she  a  beauty?  Isn't  she  a 
darling?  I've  been  down  to  hell  to  get  her;  but  isn't  she 
worth  it? ' 

Torpenhow   looked   at   the   head   of   a   woman   who 


i84  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  chap. 

laughed, — a  full-lipped,  hollow-eyed  woman  who  laughed 
from  out  of  the  canvas  as  Dick  had  intended  she  should. 

*  Who  taught  you  how  to  do  it? '  said  Torpenhow.  '  The 
touch  and  notion  have  nothing  to  do  with  your  regular 
work.  What  a  face  it  is!  What  eyes,  and  what  inso- 
lence!' Unconsciously  he  threw  back  his  head  and 
laughed  with  her.  '  She's  seen  the  game  played  out, — I 
don't  think  she  had  a  good  time  of  it, — and  now  she 
doesn't  care.     Isn't  that  the  idea?' 

'Exactly.' 

*  Where  did  you  get  the  mouth  and  chin  from?  They 
don't  belong  to  Bess.' 

'  They're — some  one  else's.  But  isn't  it  good?  Isn't  it 
thundering  good?  Wasn't  it  worth  the  whiskey?  I  did 
it.  Alone  I  did  it,  and  it's  the  best  I  can  do.'  He  drew 
his  breath  sharply,  and  whispered,  'Just  God!  what 
could  I  not  do  ten  years  hence,  if  I  can  do  this  now ! — By 
the  way,  what  do  you  think  of  it,  Bess? ' 

The  girl  was  biting  her  lips.  She  loathed  Torpenhow 
because  he  had  taken  no  notice  of  her. 

*I  think  it's  just  the  horridest,  beastliest  thing  I  ever 
saw,'  she  answered,  and  turned  away. 

'  More  than  you  will  be  of  that  way  of  thinking,  young 
woman. — Dick,  there's  a  sort  of  murderous,  viperine  sug- 
gestion in  the  poise  of  the  head  that  I  don't  understand,' 
said  Torpenhow. 

'That's  trick- work,'  said  Dick,  chuckKng  with  delight 
at  being  completely  understood.  'I  couldn't  resist  one 
little  bit  of  sheer  swagger.     It's  a  French  trick,  and  you 


XI  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  185 

wouldn't  understand;  but  it's  got  at  by  slewing  round  the 
head  a  trifle,  and  a  tin}^,  tiny  foreshortening  of  one  side  of 
the  face  from  the  angle  of  the  chin  to  the  top  of  the  left 
ear.  That,  and  deepening  the  shadow  under  the  lobe 
of  the  ear.  It  was  flagrant  trick- work ;  but,  having  the 
notion  fixed,  I  felt  entitled  to  play  with  it. — Oh,  you 
beauty ! ' 

*Amen!     She  is  a  beauty.     I  can  feel  it.' 

'So  will  every  man  who  has  any  sorrow  of  his  own,' 
said  Dick,  slapping  his  thigh.  'He  shall  see  his  trouble 
there,  and,  by  the  Lord  Harry,  just  when  he's  feeling 
properly  sorry  for  himself  he  shall  throw  back  his  head 
and  laugh, — as  she  is  laughing.  I've  put  the  life  of  my 
heart  and  the  hght  of  my  eyes  into  her,  and  I  don't  care 
what  comes.  .  .  .  I'm  tired, — awfully  tired.  I  think 
I'U  get  to  sleep.  Take  away  the  whiskey,  it  has  served 
its  turn,  and  give  Bessie  thirty-six  quid,  and  three  over  for 
luck.     Cover  the  picture.' 

He  dropped  asleep  in  the  long  chair,  his  face  white  and 
haggard,  almost  before  he  had  finished  the  sentence. 
Bessie  tried  to  take  Torpenhow's  hand.  'Aren't  you 
never  going  to  speak  to  me  any  more? '  she  said;  but  Tor- 
penhow  was  looking  at  Dick. 

'  What  a  stock  of  vanity  the  man  has!  I'll  take  him  in 
hand  to-morrow  and  make  much  of  him.  He  deserves  it. 
— Eh !  what  was  that,  Bess? ' 

'Nothing.  I'll  put  things  tidy  here  a  little,  and  then 
I'll  go.  You  couldn't  give  me  that  three  months'  pay 
now,  could  you?    He  said  you  were  to.' 


1 86  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAH^ED  chap. 

Torpenhow  gave  her  a  check  and  went  to  his  own  rooms. 
Bessie  faithfully  tidied  up  the  studio,  set  the  door  ajar  for 
flight,  emptied  half  a  bottle  of  turpentine  on  a  duster,  and 
began  to  scrub  the  face  of  the  MelancoKa  viciously.  The 
paint  did  not  smudge  quickly  enough.  She  took  a 
palette-knife  and  scraped,  following  each  stroke  with  the 
wet  duster.  In  five  minutes  the  picture  was  a  formless, 
scarred  muddle  of  colours.  She  threw  the  paint-stained 
duster  into  the  studio  stove,  stuck  out  her  tongue  at  the 
sleeper,  and  whispered,  'Bilked!'  as  she  turned  to  run 
down  the  staircase.  She  would  never  see  Torpenhow  any 
more,  but  she  had  at  least  done  harm  to  the  man  who  had 
come  between  her  and  her  desire  and  who  used  to  make 
fun  of  her.  Cashing  the  check  was  the  very  cream  of  the 
jest  to  Bessie.  Then  the  little  privateer  sailed  across  the 
Thames,  to  be  swallowed  up  in  the  gray  wilderness  of 
South-the-water. 

Dick  slept  till  late  into  the  evening,  when  Torpenhow 
dragged  him  oft'  to  bed.  His  eyes  were  as  bright  as  his 
voice  was  hoarse.  'Let's  have  another  look  at  the 
picture,'  he  said,  insistently  as  a  child. 

'You— go— to— bed,'  said  Torpenhow.  'You  aren't 
at  all  well,  though  you  mayn't  know  it.  You're  as 
jumpy  as  a  cat.' 

'  I  reform  to-morrow.     Good-night.' 

As  he  repassed  through  the  studio,  Torpenhow  lifted 
the  cloth  above  the  picture,  and  ahnost  betrayed  himself 
by  outcries:  'Wiped  out! — scraped  out  and  turped  out! 
If  Dick  knows  this  to-night  he'll  go  perfectly  mad.    He's 


XI  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  187 

on  the  verge  of  jumps  as  it  is.  That's  Bess, — the  little 
fiend!  Only  a  woman  could  have  done  that! — with  the 
ink  not  dry  on  the  check,  too !  Dick  will  be  raving  mad 
to-morrow.  It  was  all  my  fault  for  trying  to  help  gutter- 
devils.  Oh,  my  poor  Dick,  the  Lord  is  hitting  you  very 
hard!' 

Dick  could  not  sleep  that  night,  partly  for  pure  joy,  and 
partly  because  the  well-known  Catherine-wheels  inside 
his  eyes  had  given  place  to  crackHng  volcanoes  of  many- 
coloured  fire.  ' Spout  away,' he  said  aloud.  'I've  done 
my  work,  and  now  you  can  do  what  you  please.'  He  lay 
still,  staring  at  the  ceiling,  the  long-pent-up  delirium  of 
drink  in  his  veins,  his  brain  on  fire  with  racing  thoughts 
that  would  not  stay  to  be  considered,  and  his  hands 
crisped  and  dry.  He  had  just  discovered  that  he  was 
painting  the  face  of  the  Melancolia  on  a  revolving  dome 
ribbed  with  milHons  of  lights,  and  that  all  his  wondrous 
thoughts  stood  embodied  hundreds  of  feet  below  his  tiny 
swinging  plank,  shouting  together  in  his  honour,  when 
something  cracked  inside  his  temples  hke  an  overstrained 
bowstring,  the  glittering  dome  broke  inward,  and  he  was 
alone  in  the  thick  night. 

'I'll  go  to  sleep.  The  room's  very  dark.  Let's  Hght  a 
lamp  and  see  how  the  Melancoha  looks.  There  ought  to 
have  been  a  moon.' 

It  was  then  that  Torpenhow  heard  his  name  called  by 
a  voice  that  he  did  not  know, — in  the  rattHng  accents  of 
deadly  fear. 

'He's  looked  at  the  picture,'  was  his  first  thought,  as  he 


i88  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAH^ED  chap. 

hurried  into  the  bedroom  and  found  Dick  sitting  up  and 
beating  the  air  with  his  hands. 

'  Torp !  Torp !  where  are  you?  For  pity's  sake,  come 
to  me ! ' 

'What's  the  matter?' 

Dick  clutched  at  his  shoulder.  'Matter!  I've  been 
lying  here  for  hours  in  the  dark,  and  you  never  heard  me. 
Torp,  old  man,  don't  go  away.  I'm  all  in  the  dark.  In 
the  dark,  I  tell  you ! ' 

Torpenhow  held  the  candle  within  a  foot  of  Dick's  e3^es, 
but  there  was  no  light  in  those  eyes.  He  Ht  the  gas,  and 
Dick  heard  the  flame  catch.  The  grip  of  his  fingers  on 
Torpenhow's  shoulder  made  Torpenhow  wince. 

'Don't  leave  me.  You  wouldn't  leave  me  alone  now, 
would  you?  I  can't  see.  D'you  understand?  It's 
black, — quite  black, — and  I  feel  as  if  I  was  falling  through 
it  all.' 

'Steady  does  it.'  Torpenhow  put  his  arm  round  Dick 
and  began  to  rock  him  gently  to  and  fro. 

'That's  good.  Now  don't  talk.  If  I  keep  very  quiet 
for  a  while,  this  darkness  will  lift.  It  seems  just  on  the 
point  of  breaking.  H'sh!'  Dick  knit  his  brows  and 
stared  desperately  in  front  of  him.  The  night  air  was 
chilling  Torpenhow's  toes. 

'Can  you  stay  like  that  a  minute?'  he  said.  'I'll  get 
my  dressing-gown  and  some  slippers.' 

Dick  clutched  the  bed-head  with  both  hands  and  waited 
for  the  darkness  to  clear  away.  'WTiat  a  time  you've 
been!'  he  cried,   when  Torpenhow  returned.     'It's  as 


XI  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAH^ED  189 

black  as  ever.  What  are  you  banging  about  in  the  door- 
way? ' 

'Long  chair, — horse-blanket, — pillow.  Going  to  sleep 
by  you.     Lie  down  now;  you'll  be  better  in  the  morning.' 

'  I  shan't ! '  The  voice  rose  to  a  wail.  '  My  God !  I'm 
blind!  I'm  blind,  and  the  darkness  will  never  go  away.' 
He  made  as  if  to  leap  from  the  bed,  but  Torpenhow's  arms 
were  round  him,  and  Torpenhow's  chin  was  on  his 
shoulder,  and  his  breath  was  squeezed  out  of  him.  He 
could  only  gasp,  'Blind!'  and  wriggle  feebly. 

'  Steady,  Dickie,  steady ! '  said  the  deep  voice  in  his  ear, 
and  the  grip  tightened.  '  Bite  on  the  bullet,  old  man,  and 
don't  let  them  tliink  you're  afraid.'  The  grip  could  draw 
no  closer.  Both  men  were  breathing  heavily.  Dick 
threw  his  head  from  side  to  side  and  groaned. 

'Let  me  go,'  he  panted.  'You're  cracking  my  ribs. 
We — we  mustn't  let  them  think  we're  afraid,  must  we, — 
all  the  powers  of  darloiess  and  that  lot? ' 

'Lie  down.     It's  all  over  now.' 

'Yes,'  said  Dick,  obediently.  'But  would  you  mind 
letting  me  hold  your  hand?  I  feel  as  if  I  wanted  som.e- 
thing  to  hold  on  to.     One  drops  through  the  dark  so.' 

Torpenhow  thrust  out  a  large  and  hair}^  paw  from  the 
long  chair.  Dick  clutched  it  tightly,  and  in  half  an  hour 
had  fallen  asleep.  Torpenhow  withdrew  his  hand,  and, 
stooping  over  Dick,  kissed  him  hghtly  on  the  forehead,  as 
men  do  sometimes  kiss  a  wounded  comrade  in  the  hour  of 
death,  to  ease  his  departure. 

In  the  gray  dawn  Torpenhow  heard  Dick  talking  to 


I90  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  chap. 

himself.  He  was  adrift  on  the  shoreless  tides  of  delirium, 
speaking  very  quickly — 

'It's  a  pity, — a  great  pity;  but  it's  helped,  and  it  must 
be  eaten.  Master  George.  Sufficient  unto  the  day  is  the 
bhndness  thereof,  and,  further,  putting  aside  all  Melan- 
colias  and  false  humours,  it  is  of  obvious  notoriety — such 
as  mine  was — that  the  queen  can  do  no  wrong.  Torp 
doesn't  know  that.  I'll  tell  him  when  we're  a  Httle  fartlier 
into  the  desert.  What  a  bungle  those  boatmen  are  mak- 
ing of  the  steamer-ropes!  They'll  have  that  four-inch 
hawser  chafed  through  in  a  minute.  I  told  you  so — there 
she  goes!  White  foam  on  green  water,  and  the  steamer 
slewing  round.  How  good  that  looks!  I'll  sketch  it. 
No,  I  can't.  I'm  afflicted  with  ophthalmia.  That  was 
one  of  the  ten  plagues  of  Egypt,  and  it  extends  up  the 
Nile  in  the  shape  of  cataract.  Ha!  that's  a  joke,  Torp. 
Laugh,  you  graven  image,  and  stand  clear  of  the  hawser. 
.  .  .  It'll  knock  you  into  the  water  and  make  your 
dress  all  dirty,  Maisie  dear.' 

'  Oh ! '  said  Torpenhow .  '  This  happened  before.  That 
night  on  the  river.' 

'  She'll  be  sure  to  say  it's  my  fault  if  you  get  muddy, 
and  you're  quite  near  enough  to  the  breakwater.  Maisie, 
that's  not  fair.  Ah !  I  knew  you'd  miss.  Low  and  to  the 
left,  dear.  But  you've  no  conviction.  Everything  in 
the  world  except  conviction.  Don't  be  angry,  darHng. 
I'd  cut  my  hand  off  if  it  would  give  you  anything  more 
than  obstinacy.    My  right  hand,  if  it  would  serve.' 

'Now  we  mustn't  Hsten.     Here's  an  island  shouting 


XI  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  191 

across  seas  of  misunderstanding  with  a  vengeance.  But 
it's  shouting  truth,  I  fancy,'  said  Torpenhow. 

The  babble  continued.  It  all  bore  upon  Maisie. 
Sometimes  Dick  lectured  at  length  on  his  craft,  then  he 
cursed  himself  for  his  folly  in  being  enslaved.  He 
pleaded  to  Maisie  for  a  kiss — only  one  kiss — before  she 
went  away,  and  called  to  her  to  come  back  from  Vitry- 
sur-Mame,  if  she  would;  but  through  all  his  ravings  he 
bade  heaven  and  earth  witness  that  the  queen  could  do  no 
wrong. 

Torpenhow  Kstened  attentively,  and  learned  every  de- 
tail of  Dick's  life  that  had  been  hidden  from  him.  For 
three  days  Dick  raved  through  his  past,  and  then  slept  a 
natural  sleep.  '  What  a  strain  he  has  been  running  under, 
poor  chap ! '  said  Torpenhow.  '  Dick,  of  all  men,  handing 
himseK  over  Hke  a  dog!  And  I  was  lecturing  him  on 
arrogance!  I  ought  to  have  known  that  it  was  no  use  to 
judge  a  man.  But  I  did  it.  What  a  demon  that  girl  must 
be !  Dick's  given  her  his  life, — confound  him ! — and  she's 
given  him  one  kiss  apparently.' 

'Torp,'  said  Dick,  from  the  bed,  'go  out  for  a  walk. 
You've  been  here  too  long.  I'll  get  up.  Hi!  This  is 
annoying.     I  can't  dress  myself.     Oh,  it's  too  absurd ! ' 

Torpenhow  helped  him  into  his  clothes  and  led  him  to 
the  big  chair  in  the  studio.  He  sat  quietly  waiting  under 
strained  nerves  for  the  darkness  to  lift.  It  did  not  lift 
that  day,  nor  the  next.  Dick  adventured  on  a  voyage 
round  the  walls.  He  hit  his  shins  against  the  stove,  and 
this  suggested  to  him  that  it  would  be  better  to  crawl  on 


192  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAH^ED 


CHAP. 


all  fours,  one  hand  in  front  of  him.  Torpenhow  found 
him  on  the  floor, 

'I'm  trying  to  get  the  geography  of  my  new  possessions/ 
said  he.  '  D  'you  remember  that  nigger  you  gouged  in  the 
square?  Pity  you  didn't  keep  the  odd  eye.  It  would 
have  been  useful.  Any  letters  for  me?  Give  me  all  the 
ones  in  fat  gray  envelopes  with  a  sort  of  crown  thing  out- 
side.    They're  of  no  importance.' 

Torpenhow  gave  him  a  letter  Math  a  black  M.  on  the 
envelope  flap.  Dick  put  it  mto  liis  pocket.  There  was 
nothing  in  it  that  Torpenhow  might  not  have  read,  but  it 
belonged  to  himself  and  to  Maisie,  who  would  never  be- 
long to  him. 

'When  she  finds  that  I  don't  write,  she'll  stop  writing. 
It's  better  so.  I  couldn't  be  any  use  to  her  now,'  Dick 
argued,  and  the  tempter  suggested  that  he  should  make 
known  his  condition.  Every  nerve  in  him  revolted.  'I 
have  fallen  low  enough  already.  I'm  not  going  to  beg  for 
pity.  Besides,  it  would  be  cruel  to  her.'  He  strove  to 
put  Maisie  out  of  liis  thoughts;  but  the  bHnd  have  many 
opportunities  for  thinking,  and  as  the  tides  of  his  strength 
came  back  to  him  in  the  long  employless  days  of  dead 
darkness,  Dick's  soul  was  troubled  to  the  core.  Another 
letter,  and  another,  came  from  Maisie.  Then  there  was 
silence,  and  Dick  sat  by  the  window,  the  pulse  of  summer 
in  the  air,  and  pictured  her  being  won  by  another  man, 
stronger  than  himself.  His  imagination,  the  keener  for 
the  dark  background  it  worked  against,  spared  him  no 
single  detail  that  might  send  him  raging  up  and  down  the 


XI  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAH-ED  193 

studio,  to  stumble  over  the  stove  that  seemed  to  be  in 
four  places  at  once.  Worst  of  all,  tobacco  would  not 
taste  in  the  darkness.  The  arrogance  of  the  man  had  dis- 
appeared, and  in  its  place  were  settled  despair  that  Tor- 
penhow  knew,  and  blind  passion  that  Dick  confided  to  his 
pillow  at  night.  The  intervals  between  the  paroxysms 
were  filled  with  intolerable  waiting  and  the  weight  of  in- 
tolerable darkness. 

'Come  out  into  the  Park,'  said  Torpenhow.  'You 
haven't  stirred  out  since  the  beginning  of  things.' 

'What's  the  use?  There's  no  movement  in  the  dark; 
and,  besides,' — he  paused  irresolutely  at  the  head  of  the 
stairs, — 'something  will  run  over  me.' 

'  Not  if  I'm  with  you.     Proceed  gingerly.' 

The  roar  of  the  streets  filled  Dick  with  nervous  terror, 
and  he  clung  to  Torpenhow's  arm.  'Fancy  having  to 
feel  for  a  gutter  with  your  foot ! '  he  said  petulantly,  as  he 
turned  into  the  Park.     'Let's  curse  God  and  die.' 

'Sentries  are  forbidden  to  pay  unauthorised  compli- 
ments.    By  Jove,  there  are  the  Guards!' 

Dick's  figure  straightened.  'Let's  get  near 'em.  Let's 
go  in  and  look.  Let's  get  on  the  grass  and  run.  I  can 
smell  the  trees.' 

'  JMind  the  low  railing.  That's  all  right ! '  Torpenhow 
kicked  out  a  tuft  of  grass  with  his  heel.  'Smell  that,'  he 
said.  'Isn't  it  good?'  Dick  sniffed  luxuriously.  'Now 
pick  up  your  feet  and  run.'  They  approached  as  near  to 
the  regiment  as  was  possible.  The  clank  of  bayonets  be- 
ing unfLxed  made  Dick's  nostrils  quiver. 


194  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAH^ED  chap. 

'Let's  get  nearer.     They're  in  column,  aren't  they?' 

*  Yes.     How  did  you  know? ' 

'Felt  it.  Oh,  my  men! — my  beautiful  men!'  He 
edged  forward  as  though  he  could  see.  'I  could  draw 
those  chaps  once.     Who'll  draw  'em  now? ' 

'They'll  move  off  in  a  minute.  Don't  jump  when  the 
band  begins.' 

'Huh!  I'm  not  a  new  charger.  It's  the  silences  that 
hurt.  Nearer,  Torp! — nearer!  Oh,  my  God,  what 
wouldn't  I  give  to  see  em'  for  a  minute ! — one  haK-minute !' 

He  could  hear  the  armed  Hfe  almost  within  reach  of 
him,  could  hear  the  sUngs  tighten  across  the  bandsman's 
chest  as  he  heaved  the  big  drum  from  the  ground. 

'  Sticks  crossed  above  his  head,'  whispered  Torpenhow. 

'  I  know.  /  know !  Who  should  know  if  I  don't?  H'sh ! ' 

The  drum-sticks  fell  with  a  boom,  and  the  men  swung 
forward  to  the  crash  of  the  band.  Dick  felt  the  wind  of 
the  massed  movement  in  his  face,  heard  the  maddening 
tramp  of  feet  and  the  friction  of  the  pouches  on  the  belts. 
The  big  drum  pounded  out  the  tune.  It  was  a  music-hall 
refrain  that  made  a  perfect  quickstep — 

He  must  be  a  man  of  decent  height, 

He  must  be  a  man  of  weight, 
He  must  come  home  on  a  Saturday  night 

In  a  thoroughly  sober  state; 
He  must  know  how  to  love  me, 

And  he  must  know  how  to  kiss; 
And  if  he's  enough  to  keep  us  both 

I  can't  refuse  him  bliss. 


XI  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  195 

*  What's  the  matter? '  said  Torpenhow,  as  he  saw  Dick's 
head  fall  when  the  last  of  the  regiment  had  departed. 

'Nothing.  I  feel  a  httle  bit  out  of  the  running, — 
that's  all.  Torp,  take  me  back.  Why  did  you  bring  me 
out?' 


CHAPTER  XII 

There  were  three  friends  that  buried  the  fourth, 
The  mould  in  his  mouth  and  the  dust  in  his  eyes; 

And  thej^  went  south  and  east,  and  north, — 
The  strong  man  fights,  but  the  sick  man  dies. 

There  were  three  friends  that  spoke  of  the  dead, — 
The  strong  man  fights,  but  the  sick  man  dies. — 
'And  would  he  were  here  with  us  now,'  they  said, 
'The  sun  in  our  face  and  the  wind  in  our  eyes.' — Ballad. 

The  Nilghai  was  angry  with  Torpenhow.  Dick  had  been 
sent  to  bed, — blind  men  are  ever  under  the  orders  of  those 
who  can  see, — and  since  he  had  returned  from  the  Park 
had  fluently  sworn  at  Torpenhow  because  he  was  ahve, 
and  all  the  world  because  it  was  aUve  and  could  see,  while 
he,  Dick,  was  dead  in  the  death  of  the  blind,  who,  at  the 
best,  are  only  burdens  upon  their  associates.  Torpenhow 
had  said  something  about  a  IMrs.  Gummidge,  and  Dick 
had  retired  in  a  black  fury  to  handle  and  re-handle  three 
unopened  letters  from  ]\iaisie. 

The  Nilghai,  fat,  burly,  and  aggressive,  was  in  Torpen- 
how's  rooms.  Behind  him  sat  the  Keneu,  the  Great  War 
Eagle,  and  between  them  lay  a  large  map  embelHshed 
with  black-and-white-headed  pins. 

196 


CHAP,  xu  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  197 

'I  was  wrong  about  the  Balkans,'  said  the  Nilghai. 
'But  I'm  not  wrong  about  this  business.  The  whole 
of  our  work  in  the  Southern  Soudan  must  be  done  over 
again.  The  pubhc  doesn't  care,  of  course,  but  the  govern- 
ment does,  and  they  are  mailing  their  arrangements 
quietl}''.     You  know  that  as  well  as  I  do.' 

*  I  remember  how  the  people  cursed  us  when  our  troops 
withdrew  from  Omdurman.  It  was  bound  to  crop  up 
sooner  or  later.  But  I  can't  go,'  said  Torpenhow.  He 
pointed  through  the  open  door;  it  was  a  hot  night.  '  Can 
you  blame  me? ' 

The  Keneu  purred  above  his  pipe  like  a  large  and  very 
happy  cat — 

'Don't  blame  you  in  the  least.  It's  uncommonly  good 
of  you,  and  all  the  rest  of  it,  but  every  man — even  you, 
Torp — must  consider  his  work.  I  know  it  sounds  brutal, 
but  Dick's  out  of  the  isice,— down,— gastados,  expended, 
finished,  done  for.  He  has  a  httle  money  of  his  own.  He 
won't  starve,  and  you  can't  pull  out  of  your  sKde  for  his 
sake.     Think  of  your  own  reputation.' 

'  Dick's  was  five  times  bigger  than  mine  and  yours  put 
together.' 

'  That  was  because  he  signed  his  name  to  everything  he 
did.  It's  all  ended  now.  You  just  hold  yourself  in  readi- 
ness to  move  out.  You  can  command  your  own  prices, 
and  you  do  better  work  than  any  three  of  us.' 

'Don't  tell  me  how  tempting  it  is.  I'll  stay  here  to 
look  after  Dick  for  a  while.  He's  as  cheerful  as  a  bear 
with  a  sore  head,  but  I  think  he  Hkes  to  have  me  near  him.' 


iqS  the  light  that  FAH^ED  chap. 

The  Nilghai  said  something  uncomplimentary  about 
soft-headed  fools  who  throw  away  their  careers  for 
other  fools.  Torpenhow  flushed  angrily.  The  constant 
strain  of  attendance  on  Dick  had  worn  his  nerves  thin. 

'There  remains  a  third  fate/  said  the  Keneu,  thought- 
fully. 'Consider  this,  and  be  not  larger  fools  than  is 
necessary.  Dick  is — or  rather  was — an  able-bodied  man 
of  moderate  attractions  and  a  certain  amount  of  audac- 
ity.' 

'Oho!'  said  the  Nilghai,  who  remembered  an  affair  at 
Cairo.     *I  begin  to  see. — Torp,  I'm  sorry.' 

Torpenhow  nodded  forgiveness :  '  You  were  more  sorry 
when  he  cut  you  out,  though. — Go  on,  Keneu.' 

'I've  often  thought,  when  I've  seen  men  die  out  in  the 
desert,  that  if  the  news  could  be  sent  through  the  world, 
and  the  means  of  transport  were  quick  enough,  there 
would  be  one  woman  at  least  at  each  man's  bedside.' 

'There  would  be  some  mighty  quaint  revelations.  Let 
us  be  grateful  things  are  as  they  are,'  said  the  Nilghai. 

'Let  us  rather  reverently  consider  whether  Torp's 
three-cornered  ministrations  are  exactly  what  Dick  needs 
just  now. — What  do  you  think  yourself,  Torp? ' 

'  I  know  they  aren't.     But  what  can  I  do? ' 

'Lay  the  matter  before  the  board.  We  are  all  Dick's 
friends  here.     You've  been  most  in  his  life.' 

'.But  I  picked  it  up  when  he  was  off  his  head.' 

'The  greater  chance  of  its  being  true.  I  thought  we 
should  arrive.     Who  is  she? ' 

Then  Torpenhow  told  a  tale  in  plain  words,  as  a  special 


xn  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAH^ED  199 

correspondent  who  knows  how  to  make  a  verbal  precis 
should  tell  it.     The  men  listened  without  interruption. 

'Is  it  possible  that  a  man  can  come  back  across  the 
years  to  his  calf-love?'  said  the  Keneu.     'Is  it  possible?' 

I  give  the  facts.  He  says  nothing  about  it  now,  but 
he  sits  fumbling  three  letters  from  her  when  he  thinks  I'm 
not  looking.     What  am  I  to  do?' 

'  Speak  to  him,'  said  the  Nilghai. 

'Oh  yes!  Write  to  her, — I  don't  know  her  full  name, 
remember, — and  ask  her  to  accept  him  out  of  pity.  I  be- 
lieve you  once  told  Dick  you  were  sorry  for  him,  Nilghai. 
You  remember  what  happened,  eh?  Go  into  the  bed- 
room and  suggest  full  confession  and  an  appeal  to  this 
Maisie  girl,  whoever  she  is.  I  honestly  believe  he'd  try  to 
kill  you;  and  the  blindness  has  made  him  rather  muscu- 
lar.' 

'Torpenhow's  course  is  perfectly  clear,'  said  the  Keneu. 
'He  will  go  to  Vitry-sur-Marne,  which  is  on  the  Bezieres- 
Landes  Railway, — single  track  from  Tourgas.  The 
Prussians  shelled  it  out  in  '70  because  there  was  a  poplar 
on  the  top  of  a  hill  eighteen  hundred  yards  from  the 
church  spire.  There's  a  squadron  of  cavalry  quartered 
there,— or  ought  to  be.  Where  this  studio  Torp  spoke 
about  may  be  I  cannot  tell.  That  is  Torp's  business.  I 
have  given  him  his  route.  He  wiU  dispassionately  explain 
the  situation  to  the  girl,  and  she  will  come  back  to  Dick, — 
the  more  especially  because,  to  use  Dick's  words,  "there 
is  nothing  but  her  damned  obstinacy  to  keep  them 
apart."  ' 


200  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  chap. 

'And  they  have  four  hundred  and  twenty  pounds  a  year 
between  'em.  Dick  never  lost  his  head  for  figures,  even 
in  his  delirium.  You  haven't  the  shadow  of  an  excuse  for 
not  going,'  said  the  Nilghai. 

Torpenhow  looked  very  uncomfortable.  'But  it's 
absurd  and  impossible.  I  can't  drag  her  back  by  the 
hair.' 

'Our  business — the  business  for  which  we  draw  our 
money — is  to  do  absurd  and  impossible  things, — generally 
with  no  reason  whatever  except  to  amuse  the  pubKc. 
Here  we  have  a  reason.  The  rest  doesn't  matter.  I  shall 
share  these  rooms  with  the  Nilghai  till  Torpenhow  re- 
turns. There  will  be  a  batch  of  unbridled  "specials" 
coming  to  town  in  a  little  while,  and  these  will  serve  as 
their  headquarters.  Another  reason  for  sending  Torpen- 
how away.  Thus  Providence  helps  those  who  help  others, 
and' — here  the  Keneu  dropped  his  measured  speech — 'we 
can't  have  you  tied  by  the  leg  to  Dick  when  the  trouble 
begins.  It's  your  only  chance  of  getting  away;  and  Dick 
will  be  grateful.' 

'He  will, — worse  luck !  I  can  but  go  and  try.  I  can't 
conceive  a  woman  in  her  senses  refusing  Dick.' 

'Talk  that  out  with  the  girl.  I  have  seen  you  wheedle 
an  angry  Mahdieh  woman  into  giving  you  dates.  This 
won't  be  a  tithe  as  difficult.  You  had  better  not  be  here 
to-morrow  afternoon,  because  the  Nilghai  and  I  will  be  in 
possession.     It  is  an  order.     Obey.' 

'Dick,'  said  Torpenhow,  next  morning,  'can  I  do  any- 
thing for  you? ' 


xn  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED 


20I 


*  No !  Leave  me  alone.  How  often  must  I  remind  you 
that  I'm  blind?' 

'Nothing  I  could  go  for  to  fetch  for  to  carry  for  to 
bring? ' 

*No.  Take  those  infernal  creaking  boots  of  yours 
away.' 

*  Poor  chap ! '  said  Torpenhow  to  himself,  '  I  must  have 
been  sitting  on  his  nerves  lately.  He  wants  a  lighter 
step.'  Then,  aloud,  'Very  well.  Since  you're  so  in- 
dependent, I'm  going  off  for  four  or  five  days.  Say  good- 
bye at  least.  The  housekeeper  will  look  after  you,  and 
Keneu  has  my  rooms.' 

Dick's  face  fell.  'You  won't  be  longer  than  a  week  at 
the  outside?  I  Imow  I'm  touched  in  the  temper,  but  I 
can't  get  on  without  you.' 

'  Can't  you?  You'll  have  to  do  without  me  in  a  little 
time,  and  you'll  be  glad  I'm  gone.' 

Dick  felt  his  way  back  to  the  big  chair,  and  wondered 
what  these  things  might  mean.  He  did  not  wish  to  be 
tended  by  the  housekeeper,  and  yet  Torpenhow's  con- 
stant tendernesses  jarred  on  him.  He  did  not  exactly 
know  what  he  wanted.  The  darkness  would  not  Hft,  and 
Maisie's  unopened  letters  felt  worn  and  old  from  much 
handling.  He  could  never  read  them  for  himself  as  long  as 
life  endured;  but  Maisie  might  have  sent  him  some  fresh 
ones  to  play  with.  The  Nilghai  entered  with  a  gift,— a 
piece  of  red  modelling-wax.  He  fancied  that  Dick  might 
find  interest  in  using  his  hands.  Dick  poked  and  patted 
the  stuff  for  a  few  minutes,  and,  'Is  it  like  anything  in  the 


202  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  chap. 

world? '  he  said  drearily.  'Take  it  away.  I  may  get  the 
touch  of  the  bhnd  in  fifty  years.  Do  you  know  where 
Torpenhow  has  gone? ' 

The  Nilghai  knew  nothing.  'We're  sta3dng  in  his 
rooms  till  he  comes  back.  Can  we  do  anything  for 
you?' 

'I'd  like  to  be  left  alone,  please.  Don't  think  I'm  un- 
grateful; but  I'm  best  alone.' 

The  Nilghai  chuckled,  and  Dick  resumed  his  drowsy 
brooding  and  sullen  rebellion  against  fate.  He  had  long 
since  ceased  to  think  about  the  work  he  had  done  in  the 
old  days,  and  the  desire  to  do  more  work  had  departed 
from  him.  He  was  exceedingly  sorry  for  himself,  and  the 
completeness  of  his  tender  grief  soothed  him.  But  his 
soul  and  his  body  cried  for  Maisie — Maisie  who  would 
understand.  His  mind  pointed  out  that  Maisie,  having 
her  own  work  to  do,  would  not  care.  His  experience  had 
taught  him  that  when  money  was  exhausted  women  went 
away,  and  that  when  a  man  was  knocked  out  of  the  race 
the  others  trampled  on  him.  'Then  at  the  least,'  said 
Dick,  in  reply,  'she  could  use  me  as  I  used  Binat, — for 
some  sort  of  a  study.  I  wouldn't  ask  more  than  to  be 
near  her  again,  even  though  I  knew  that  another  man  was 
making  love  to  her.     Ugh !  what  a  dog  I  am ! ' 

A  voice  on  the  staircase  began  to  sing  joyfully — 

*  When  we  go — go — go  away  from  here, 

Our  creditors  will  weep  and  they  will  wail, 
Our  absence  much  regretting  when  they  find  that  we've  been  getting 

Out  of  England  by  next  Tuesday's  Indian  mail.' 


xn  THE  LIGHT  THAT  F.\n.ED  203 

Following  the  trampling  of  feet,  slamming  of  Torpen- 
how's  door,  and  the  sound  of  voices  in  strenuous  debate, 
some  one  squeaked,  'And  see,  you  good  fellows,  I  have 
found  a  new  water-bottle, — firs'-class  patent— eh,  how 
you  say?     Open  himself  inside  out.' 

Dick  sprang  to  his  feet.     He  knew  the  voice  well. 
That's    Cassavetti,    come   back   from    the    Continent. 
Now  I  know  v/hy  Torp  went  away.     There's  a  row  some- 
v/here,  and — I'm  out  of  it!' 

The  Nilghai  commanded  silence  in  vain.  'That's  for 
my  sake,'  Dick  said  bitterly.  'The  birds  are  getting 
ready  to  fly,  and  they  wouldn't  tell  me.  I  can  hear 
Morten -Sutherland  and  Mackaye.  Half  the  War  Cor- 
respondents in  London  are  there : — and  I'm  out  of  it.' 

He  stumbled  across  the  landing  and  plunged  into  Tor- 
penhow's  room.  He  could  feel  that  it  was  full  of  men. 
'Where's  the  trouble?'  said  he.  'In  the  Balkans  at  last? 
Why  didn't  some  one  tell  me? ' 

'We  thought  you  wouldn't  be  interested,'  said  the 
Nilghai,  shamefacedly.      '  It's  in  the  Soudan,  as  usual.' 

'You  lucky  dogs!  Let  me  sit  here  while  you  talk.  I 
shan't  be  a  skeleton  at  the  feast. — Cassavetti,  where 
are  you?    Your  English  is  as  bad  as  ever.' 

Dick  was  led  into  a  chair.  He  heard  the  rustle  of  the 
maps,  and  the  talk  swept  forward,  carrying  him  with  it. 
Everybody  spoke  at  once,  discussing  press  censorships, 
railway-routes,  transport,  water-supply,  the  capacities  of 
generals, — these  in  language  that  would  have  horrified  a 
trusting   public, — ranting,    asserting,    denouncing,    and 


ao4  THE  LIGHT  TH-\T  FAILED  chap. 

laughing  at  the  top  of  their  voices.  There  was  the  glo- 
rious certainty  of  war  in  the  Soudan  at  any  moment.  The 
Nilghai  said  so,  and  it  was  well  to  be  in  readiness.  The 
Keneu  had  telegraphed  to  Cairo  for  horses;  Cassavetti 
had  stolen  a  perfectly  inaccurate  list  of  troops  that  would 
be  ordered  forward,  and  was  reading  it  out  amid  profane 
interruptions,  and  the  Keneu  introduced  to  Dick  some 
man  unknown  who  would  be  emiployed  as  war  artist  by 
the  Central  Southern  S^Tidicate.  'It's  his  first  outing,' 
said  the  Keneu.  'Give  him  some  tips — about  riding 
camels.' 

'  Oh,  those  camels ! '  groaned  Cassavetti.  *  I  shall  learn 
to  ride  liim  again,  and  now  I  am  so  much  all  soft !  Listen, 
you  good  fellows.  I  know  your  military  arrangement 
very  well.  There  will  go  the  Royal  Argalshire  Suther- 
landers.     So  it  was  read  to  me  upon  best  authority.' 

A  roar  of  laughter  interrupted  him. 

'Sit  down,'  said  the  Nilghai.  'The  lists  aren't  even 
made  out  in  the  War  Office.' 

'  Will  there  be  any  force  at  Suakin? '  said  a  voice. 

Then  the  outcries  redoubled,  and  grew  mixed,  thus: 

'How  many  Egyptian  troops  will  they  use? God  help 

the    Fellaheen! There's    a    railway    in    Plumstead 

marshes  doing  duty  as  a  fives-court. We  shall  have  the 

Suakin-Berber  line  built  at  last. Canadian  voyageurs 

are  too  careful.     Give  me  a  half-drunk  Krooman  in  a 

whale-boat. ^ ^Who   commands   the  Desert  column? 

No,  they  never  blew  up  the  big  rock  in  the  Ghineh 

bend.    We  shall  have  to  be  hauled  up,  as  usual. Some- 


xn  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  205 

body  tell  me  if  there's  an  Indian  contingent,  or  I'll  break 

everybody's  head. Don't  tear  the  map  in  two. It's 

a  war  of  occupation,  I  tell  you,  to  connect  with  the  Afri- 
can companies  in  the  South. There's  Guinea-worm 

in  most  of  the  wells  on  that  route.'  Then  the  Nilghai,  de- 
spairing of  peace,  bellowed  like  a  fog-horn  and  beat  upon 
the  table  with  both  hands. 

'But  what  becomes  of  Torpenhow?'  said  Dick,  in  the 
silence  that  followed. 

'Torp's  in  abeyance  just  now.  He's  off  love-making 
somewhere,  I  suppose,'  said  the  Nilghai. 

'He  said  he  was  going  to  stay  at  home,'  said  the  Keneu. 

*  Is  he? '  said  Dick,  with  an  oath.  '  He  won't.  I'm  not 
much  good  now,  but  if  you  and  the  Nilghai  hold  him  down 
I'll  engage  to  trample  on  him  till  he  sees  reason.  He  stay 
behind,  indeed!  He's  the  best  of  you  all.  There'll  be 
some  tough  work  by  Omdurman.  We  shall  come  there  to 
stay,  this  time.  But  I  forgot.  I  wish  I  were  going  with 
you.' 

'So  do  we  all,  Dickie,'  said  the  Keneu. 

'And  I  most  of  all,'  said  the  new  artist  of  the  Central 
Southern  Syndicate.     '  Could  you  tell  me ' 

'I'll  give  you  one  piece  of  advice,'  Dick  answered, 
moving  towards  the  door.  '  If  you  happen  to  be  cut  over 
the  head  in  a  scrimmage,  don't  guard.  Tell  the  man  to 
go  on  cutting.  You'll  find  it  cheapest  in  the  end. 
Thanks  for  letting  me  look  in.' 

'There's  grit  in  Dick,'  said  the  Nilghai,  an  hour  later, 
when  the  .'oom  was  emptied  of  all  save  the  Keneu. 


2o6  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  chap,  xu 

'It  was  the  sacred  call  of  the  war- trumpet.  Did  you 
notice  how  he  answered  to  it?  Poor  fellow!  Let's  look 
at  him/  said  the  Keneu. 

The  excitement  of  the  talk  had  died  away.  Dick  was 
sitting  by  the  studio  table,  with  his  head  on  his  arms, 
when  the  men  came  in.     He  did  not  change  his  position. 

'  It  hurts,'  he  moaned.  *  God  forgive  me,  but  it  hurts 
cruelly;  and  yet,  y'know,  the  world  has  a  knack  of 
spinning  round  all  by  itself.  Shall  I  see  Torp  before  he 
goes? ' 

'  Oh,  yes.     You'll  see  him,'  said  the  Nilghai. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

The  sun  went  down  an  hour  ago, 

I  wonder  if  I  face  towards  home; 
If  I  lost  my  way  in  the  hght  of  day 

How  shall  I  find  it  now  night  is  come? 

— Old  Song. 

'Maisie,  come  to  bed.' 

*  It's  so  hot  I  can't  sleep.     Don't  worry.' 

Maisie  put  her  elbows  on  the  window-sill  and  looked 
at  the  moonlight  on  the  straight,  poplar-flanked  road. 
Summer  had  come  upon  Vitry-sur-Marne  and  parched  it 
to  the  bone.  The  grass  was  dry-burnt  in  the  meadows, 
the  clay  by  the  bank  of  the  river  was  caked  to  brick,  the 
roadside  flowers  were  long  since  dead,  and  the  roses  in  the 
garden  hung  withered  on  their  stalks.  The  heat  in  the 
Httle  low  bedroom  under  the  eaves  was  almost  intolerable. 
The  very  moonHght  on  the  wall  of  Kami's  studio  across 
the  road  seemed  to  make  the  night  hotter,  and  the 
shadow  of  the  big  bell-handle  by  the  closed  gate  cast  a  bar 
of  inky  black  that  caught  Maisie's  eye  and  annoyed  her. 

'Horrid  thing!  It  should  be  all  white,'  she  murmured. 
'And  the  gate  isn't  in  the  middle  of  the  wall,  either.  I 
never  noticed  that  before.' 

Maisie  was  hard  to  please  at  that  hour.     First,  the  heat 

207 


2o8  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAttED  chap. 

of  the  past  few  weeks  had  worn  her  down;  secondly,  her 
work,  and  particularly  the  study  of  a  female  head  intended 
to  represent  the  Melancolia  and  not  finished  in  time  for 
the  Salon,  was  unsatisfactory;  thirdly,  Kami  had  said  as 
much  two  days  before;  fourthly, — but  so  completely 
fourthly  that  it  was  hardly  worth  thinking  about, — Dick, 
her  property,  had  not  written  to  her  for  more  than  six 
weeks.  She  was  angry  with  the  heat,  with  Kami,  and 
with  her  work,  but  she  was  exceedingly  angry  with  Dick. 
She  had  written  to  him  three  times, — each  time  pro- 
posing a  fresh  treatment  of  her  MelancoKa.  Dick  had 
taken  no  notice  of  these  communications.  She  had  re- 
solved to  write  no  more.  When  she  returned  to  England 
in  the  autumn — for  her  pride's  sake  she  could  not  return 
earlier — she  would  speak  to  him.  She  missed  the  Sunday 
afternoon  conferences  more  than  she  cared  to  admit.  All 
that  Kami  said  was,  'Continuez,  mademoiselle,  continuez, 
totijours/  and  he  had  been  repeating  his  wearisome  coun- 
sel through  the  hot  summer,  exactly  like  a  cicala, — an 
old  gray  cicala  in  a  black  alpaca  coat,  white  trousers,  and 
a  huge  felt  hat.  But  Dick  had  tramped  masterfully  up 
and  down  her  little  studio  north  of  the  cool  green  London 
park,  and  had  said  things  ten  times  worse  than  continuez, 
before  he  snatched  the  brush  out  of  her  hand  and  showed 
her  where  her  error  lay.  His  last  letter,  Maisie  remem- 
bered, contained  some  trivial  advice  about  not  sketching 
in  the  sun  or  drinking  water  at  wayside  farmhouses;  and 
he  had  said  that  not  once,  but  three  times, — as  if  he  did 
not  know  that  Maisie  could  take  care  of  herself. 


xm  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  209 

But  what  was  he  doing,  that  he  could  not  trouble  to 
write?  A  murmur  of  voices  in  the  road  made  her  lean 
from  the  window.  A  cavalryman  of  the  little  garrison  in 
the  town  was  talking  to  Kami's  cook.  The  moonlight 
glittered  on  the  scabbard  of  his  sabre,  which  he  was  hold- 
ing in  his  hand  lest  it  should  clank  inopportunely. 
The  cook's  cap  cast  deep  shadows  on  her  face,  which  was 
close  to  the  conscript's.  He  slid  his  arm  round  her 
waist,  and  there  followed  the  sound  of  a  kiss. 

'  Faugh ! '  said  Maisie,  stepping  back. 

'What's  that? '  said  the  red-haired  girl,  who  was  tossing 
uneasily  outside  her  bed. 

'Only  a  conscript  kissing  the  cook,'  said  Maisie. 

'They've  gone  away  now.'  She  leaned  out  of  the 
window  agam,  and  put  a  shawl  over  her  nightgown  to 
guard  against  chills.  There  was  a  very  small  night- 
breeze  abroad,  and  a  sun-baked  rose  below  nodded  its 
head  as  one  who  knew  unutterable  secrets.  Was  it 
possible  that  Dick  should  turn  his  thoughts  from  her  work 
and  his  own  and  descend  to  the  degradation  of  Suzanne 
and  the  conscript?  He  could  not!  The  rose  nodded  its 
head  and  one  leaf  therewith.  It  looked  hke  a  naughty 
little  devil  scratching  its  ear.  Dick  could  not,  'because,' 
thought  Maisie,  'he  is  mine, — mine, — mine.  He  said  he 
was.  I'm  sure  I  don't  care  what  he  does.  It  will  only 
spoil  his  work  if  he  does;  and  it  will  spoil  mine  too.' 

The  rose  continued  to  nod  in  the  futile  way  peculiar  to 
flowers.  There  was  no  earthly  reason  why  Dick  should 
not  disport  himself  as  he  chose,  except  that  he  was  called 


2IO  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAH^ED  chap. 

by  Providence,  which  was  Maisie,  to  assist  Maisie  in  her 
work.  And  her  work  was  the  preparation  of  pictures  that 
went  sometimes  to  English  provincial  exhibitions,  as  the 
notices  in  the  scrap-book  proved,  and  that  were  invaria- 
bly rejected  by  the  Salon  when  Kami  was  plagued  into 
allowing  her  to  send  them  up.  Her  work  in  the  future,  it 
seemed,  would  be  the  preparation  of  pictures  on  exactly 
similar  lines  which  would  be  rejected  in  exactly  the  same 
way 

The  red-haired  girl  threshed  distressfully  across  the 
sheets.  'It's  too  hot  to  sleep/  she  moaned;  and  the  in- 
terruption jarred. 

Exactly  the  same  way.  Then  she  would  divide  her 
years  between  the  Httle  studio  in  England  and  Kami's  big 
studio  at  Vitry-sur-Marne.  No,  she  would  go  to  another 
master,  who  should  force  her  into  the  success  that  was  her 
right,  if  patient  toil  and  desperate  endeavour  gave  one  a 
right  to  anything.  Dick  had  told  her  that  he  had  worked 
ten  years  to  understand  his  craft.  She  had  worked  ten 
years,  and  ten  years  were  nothing.  Dick  had  said  that 
ten  years  were  nothing, — but  that  was  in  regard  to 
herself  only.  He  had  said — this  very  man  who  could 
not  find  time  to  write — that  he  would  wait  ten  years 
for  her,  and  that  she  was  bound  to  come  back  to  him 
sooner  or  later.  He  had  said  this  in  the  absurd  letter 
about  sunstroke  and  diphtheria;  and  then  he  had  stopped 
writing.  He  was  wandering  up  and  dov/n  moonlit 
streets,  kissing  cooks.  She  would  like  to  lecture  him  now, 
— not  in  her  nightgown,  of  course,  but  properly  dressed, 


xra  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  211 

severely  and  from  a  height.  Yet  if  he  was  kissing  other 
girls  he  certainly  would  not  care  whether  she  lectured  him 
or  not.  He  would  laugh  at  her.  Very  good.  She  would 
go  back  to  her  studio  and  prepare  pictures  that  went,  etc., 
etc.  The  mill-wheel  of  thought  swung  round  slowly,  that 
no  section  of  it  might  be  slurred  over,  and  the  red-haired 
girl  tossed  and  turned  behind  her. 

Maisie  put  her  chin  in  her  hands  and  decided  that  there 
could  be  no  doubt  whatever  of  the  villany  of  Dick.  To 
justify  herself,  she  began,  unwomanly,  to  weigh  the  evi- 
dence. There  was  a  boy,  and  he  had  said  he  loved  her. 
And  he  kissed  her, — kissed  her  on  the  cheek, — by  a  yellov/ 
sea-poppy  that  nodded  its  head  exactly  like  the  madden- 
ing dry  rose  in  the  garden.  Then  there  was  an  interval, 
and  men  had  told  her  that  they  loved  her — just  when  she 
was  busiest  with  her  work.  Then  the  boy  came  back,  and 
at  their  very  second  meeting  had  told  her  that  he  loved 

her.     Then  he  had But  there  was  no  end  to  the  things 

he  had  done.  He  had  given  her  his  time  and  his  powers. 
He  had  spoken  to  her  of  Art,  housekeeping,  technique, 
tea-cups,  the  abuse  of  pickles  as  a  stimulant, — that  was 
rude, — sable  hair-brushes, — he  had  given  her  the  best  in 
her  stock, — she  used  them  daily;  he  had  given  her  advice 
that  she  profited  by,  and  now  and  again — a  look.  Such  a 
look !  The  look  of  a  beaten  hound  waiting  for  the  word  to 
crawl  to  his  mistress's  feet.  In  return  she  had  given  him 
nothing  whatever,  except — here  she  brushed  her  mouth 
against  the  open-work  sleeve  of  her  nightgown — the 
privilege  of  kissing  her  once.     And  on  the  mouth,  too. 


212  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  chap. 

Disgraceful!  Was  that  not  enough,  and  more  than 
enough?  and  if  it  was  not,  had  he  not  cancelled  the  debt 
by  not  writing  and — probably  kissing  other  girls? 

'Maisie,  you'll  catch  a  chill.  Do  go  and  lie  down,'  said 
the  wearied  voice  of  her  companion.  'I  can't  sleep  a 
wink  with  you  at  the  window.' 

Maisie  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  did  not  answer. 
She  was  reflecting  on  the  meannesses  of  Dick,  and  on 
other  meannesses  'with  which  he  had  nothing  to  do.  The 
moonhght  would  not  let  her  sleep.  It  lay  on  the  skylight 
of  the  studio  across  the  road  in  cold  silver;  she  stared  at  it 
intently  and  her  thoughts  began  to  sHde  one  into  the 
other.  The  shadow  of  the  big  bell-handle  in  the  wall 
grew  short,  lengthened  again,  and  faded  out  as  the  m.oon 
went  down  behind  the  pasture  and  a  hare  came  limping 
home  across  the  road.  Then  the  dawn-wind  washed 
through  the  upland  grasses,  and  brought  coolness  with  it, 
and  the  cattle  lowed  by  the  drought-shrunk  river. 
Maisie's  head  fell  forward  on  the  window-sill,  and  the 
tangle  of  black  hair  covered  her  arms. 

'Maisie,  wake  up.     You'll  catch  a  chill.' 

*  Yes,  dear;  yes,  dear.'  She  staggered  to  her  bed  like  a 
wearied  child,  and  as  she  buried  her  face  in  the  pillows  she 
muttered,  'I  think — I  think.  .  .  .  But  he  ought  to 
have  written.' 

Day  brought  the  routine  of  the  studio,  the  smell  of 
paint  and  turpentine,  and  the  monotonous  wisdom  of 
Kami,  who  was  a  leaden  artist,  but  a  golden  teacher  if  the 
pupil  were  only  in  sympathy  with  him.     Maisie  was  not 


xm  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  213 

in  sympathy  that  day,  and  she  waited  impatiently  for  the 
end  of  the  work.  She  knew  when  it  was  coming;  for 
Kami  would  gather  his  black  alpaca  coat  into  a  bunch  be- 
hind him,  and,  with  faded  blue  eyes  that  saw  neither 
pupils  nor  canvas,  look  back  into  the  past  to  recall  the 
history  of  one  Buiat.  'You  have  all  done  not  so  badly,' 
he  would  say.  'But  you  shall  remember  that  it  is  not 
enough  to  have  the  method,  and  the  art,  and  the  power, 
nor  even  that  which  is  touch,  but  you  shall  have 
also  the  conviction  that  nails  the  work  to  the  wall. 
Of  the  so  many  I  have  taught,' — here  the  students  would 
begin  to  unfix  drawing-pins  or  get  their  tubes  together, — 
'  the  very  so  many  that  I  have  taught,  the  best  was  Binat. 
All  that  comes  of  the  study  and  the  work  and  the  knowl- 
edge was  to  him  even  when  he  came.  After  he  left  me  he 
should  have  done  all  that  could  be  done  with  the  colour, 
the  form,  and  the  knowledge.  Only,  he  had  not  the  con- 
viction. So  to-day  I  hear  no  more  of  Binat, — the  best  of 
my  pupils, — and  that  is  long  ago.  So  to-day,  too,  you 
will  be  glad  to  hear  no  more  of  me.  Continuez,  mesdemoi- 
selles,  and,  above  all,  with  con\dction.' 

He  went  into  the  garden  to  smoke  and  mourn  over  the 
lost  Binat  as  the  pupils  dispersed  to  their  several  cottages 
or  loitered  in  the  studio  to  make  plans  for  the  cool  of  the 
afternoon. 

Maisie  looked  at  her  very  unhappy  Melancolia,  re- 
strained a  desire  to  grimace  before  it,  and  was  hurrying 
across  the  road  to  write  a  letter  to  Dick,  when  she  was 
aware  of  a  large  man  on  a  white  troop-horse.     How  Tor- 


214  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAH^ED  chap. 

penhowhad  managed  in  the  course  of  twent}''  hours  to  find 
his  way  to  the  hearts  of  the  cavalry  officers  in  quarters  at 
Vitry-sur-Marne,  to  discuss  with  them  the  certainty  of  a 
glorious  revenge  for  France,  to  reduce  the  colonel  to  tears 
of  pure  affabihty,  and  to  borrow  the  best  horse  in  the 
squadron  for  the  journey  to  Kami's  studio,  is  a  mystery 
that  only  special  correspondents  can  unravel. 

'I  beg  your  pardon,'  said  he.  'It  seems  an  absurd 
question  to  ask,  but  the  fact  is  that  I  don't  know  her  by 
any  other  name:  Is  there  any  young  lady  here  that  is 
called  Maisie? ' 

'I  am  Maisie,'  was  the  answer  from  the  depths  of  a 
great  sun-hat. 

'I  ought  to  introduce  myself,'  he  said,  as  the  horse 
capered  in  the  bhnding  white  dust.  'My  name  is  Tor- 
penhow.  Dick  Heldar  is  my  best  friend,  and — and — the 
fact  is  that  he  has  gone  blind.' 

'  Blind ! '  said  Maisie,  stupidly.     '  He  can't  be  blind.' 

'He  has  been  stone-blind  for  nearly  two  months.' 

Maisie  lifted  up  her  face,  and  it  was  pearly  white.  '  No ! 
No !     Not  blind !     I  won't  have  him  blind ! ' 

'Would  you  care  to  see  for  yourself?'  said  Torpenhow. 

'Now, — at  once?' 

*  Oh  no !  The  Paris  train  doesn't  go  through  this  place 
till  eight  to-night.     There  will  be  ample  time.' 

'Did  Mr.  Heldar  send  you  to  me? ' 

'Certainly  not.  Dick  wouldn't  do  that  sort  of  thing. 
He's  sitting  in  his  studio,  turning  over  some  letters  that  he 
can't  read  because  he's  blind.' 


xm  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  215 

There  was  a  sound  of  choking  from  the  sun-hat. 
Maisie  bowed  her  head  and  went  into  the  cottage,  where 
the  red-haired  girl  was  on  a  sofa,  complaining  of  a  head- 
ache. 

'  Dick's  bhnd ! '  said  Maisie,  taking  her  breath  quickly 
as  she  steadied  herself  against  a  chair-back.  '  My  Dick's 
blind!' 

'  What? '     The  girl  was  on  the  sofa  no  longer. 

'A  man  has  come  from  England  to  tell  me.  He  hasn't 
written  to  me  for  six  weeks.' 

'  Are  you  going  to  him? ' 

'I  must  think.' 

'  Think !  /  should  go  back  to  London  and  see  him,  and 
I  should  kiss  his  eyes  and  kiss  them  and  kiss  them  until 
they  got  well  again !  If  you  don't  go  I  shall.  Oh,  what 
am  I  talking  about?  You  wicked  httle  idiot !  Go  to  him 
at  once.     Go!' 

Torpenhow's  neck  was  bhstering,  but  he  preserved  a 
smile  of  infinite  patience  as  Maisie  appeared  bare-headed 
in  the  sunshine. 

*I  am  coming,'  said  she,  her  eyes  on  the  ground. 

'You  will  be  at  Vitry  Station,  then,  at  seven  this 
evening.'  This  was  an  order  delivered  by  one  who  was 
used  to  being  obeyed.  Maisie  said  nothing,  but  she  felt 
grateful  that  there  was  no  chance  of  disputing  with  this 
big  man  who  took  everything  for  granted  and  managed  a 
squealing  horse  with  one  hand.  She  returned  to  the  red- 
haired  girl,  who  was  weeping  bitterly,  and  between  tears, 
kisses, — very  few  of  those, — menthol,  packing,  and  an 


2i6  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAH^ED  chap. 

interview  with  Kami,  the  sultry  afternoon  wore  away. 
Thought  might  come  afterwards.  Her  present  duty  was 
to  go  to  Dick, — Dick  who  owned  the  wondrous  friend  and 
sat  in  the  dark  playing  with  her  unopened  letters. 

'  But  what  will  you  do? '  she  said  to  her  companion. 

*  I?  Oh,  I  shall  stay  here  and — finish  your  Melancolia,' 
she  said,  smiling  pitifully.     *  Write  to  me  afterwards.' 

That  night  there  ran  a  legend  through  Vitry-sur-Marne 
of  a  mad  Englishman,  doubtless  suffering  from  sunstroke, 
who  had  drunk  all  the  officers  of  the  garrison  under  the 
table,  had  borrowed  a  horse  from  the  lines,  and  had  then 
and  there  eloped,  after  the  English  custom,  wdth  one  of 
those  more  than  mad  English  girls  who  drew  pictures 
down  there  under  the  care  of  that  good  Monsieur 
Kami. 

'They  are  very  droll,'  said  Suzanne  to  the  conscript  in 
the  moonhght  by  the  studio  wall.  'She  walked  always 
with  those  big  eyes  that  saw  nothing,  and  yet  she  kisses 
me  on  both  cheeks  as  though  she  were  my  sister,  and 
gives  me — see — ten  francs ! ' 

The  conscript  levied  a  contribution  on  both  gifts;  for  he 
prided  himself  on  being  a  good  soldier, 

Torpenhow  spoke  very  little  to  Maisie  during  the 
journey  to  Calais;  but  he  was  careful  to  attend  to  all  her 
wants,  to  get  her  a  compartment  entirely  to  herself,  and 
to  leave  her  alone.  He  was  amazed  at  the  ease  with 
which  the  matter  had  been  accomplished. 

'The  safest  thing  would  be  to  let  her  think  things  out. 
By  Dick's  showing, — when  he  was  off  his  head, — she 


xm  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  217 

must  have  ordered  him  about  very  thoroughly.  Wonder 
how  she  Hkes  being  under  orders.' 

Maisie  never  told.  She  sat  in  the  empty  compartment 
often  with  her  eyes  shut,  that  she  might  reahse  the  sen- 
sation of  blindness.  It  was  an  order  that  she  should  re- 
turn to  London  swiftly,  and  she  found  herself  at  last 
almost  beginning  to  enjoy  the  situation.  Tliis  was  better 
than  looking  after  luggage  and  a  red-haired  friend  who 
never  took  any  interest  in  her  surroundings.  But  there 
appeared  to  be  a  feeHng  in  the  air  that  she,  Maisie, — of  all 
people, — was  in  disgrace.  Therefore  she  justified  her 
conduct  to  herself  with  great  success,  till  Torpenhow  came 
up  to  her  on  the  steamier  and  without  preface  began  to  tell 
the  story  of  Dick's  blindness,  suppressing  a  few  details, 
but  dwelling  at  length  on  the  miseries  of  delirium.  He 
stopped  before  he  reached  the  end,  as  though  he  had  lost 
interest  in  the  subject,  and  went  forward  to  smoke. 
Maisie  was  furious  with  him  and  with  herself. 

She  was  hurried  on  from  Dover  to  London  almost  before 
she  could  ask  for  breakfast,  and — she  was  past  any  feeling 
of  indignation  now — was  bidden  curtly  to  wait  in  a  hall  at 
the  foot  of  some  lead-covered  stairs  while  Torpenhow  went 
up  to  make  inquiries.  Again  the  knowledge  that  she  was 
being  treated  like  a  naughty  little  girl  made  her  pale 
cheeks  flame.  It  was  all  Dick's  fault  for  being  so  stupid 
as  to  go  blind. 

Torpenhow  led  her  up  to  a  shut  door,  which  he  opened 
very  softly.  Dick  was  sitting  by  the  window,  with  his 
chin  on  his  chest.    There  were  three  envelopes  in  his  hand, 


2i8  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAH^ED  chap. 

and  he  turned  them  over  and  over.  The  big  man  who 
gave  orders  was  no  longer  by  her  side,  and  the  studio  door 
snapped  behind  her. 

Dick  thrust  the  letters  into  his  pocket  as  he  heard  the 
sound.  'Hullo,  Torp!  Is  that  you?  I've  been  so 
lonely.' 

His  voice  had  taken  the  peculiar  flatness  of  the  blind. 
Maisie  pressed  herself  up  into  a  corner  of  the  room.  Her 
heart  was  beating  furiously,  and  she  put  one  hand  on  her 
breast  to  keep  it  quiet.  Dick  was  staring  directly  at  her, 
and  she  reaUsed  for  the  first  time  that  he  was  bHnd. 
Shutting  her  eyes  in  a  railway-carriage  to  open  them 
when  she  pleased  was  child's  play.  This  man  was  bHnd 
though  his  eyes  were  wide  open. 

'Torp,  is  that  you?  They  said  you  were  coming.' 
Dick  looked  puzzled  and  a  Httle  irritated  at  the  silence. 

'No:  it's  only  me,'  was  the  answer,  in  a  strained  Httle 
whisper.     Maisie  could  hardly  move  her  lips. 

' H'm ! '  said  Dick,  composedly,  without  moving.  '  This 
is  a  new  phenomenon.  Darkness  I'm  getting  used  to ;  but 
I  object  to  hearing  voices.' 

Was  he  mad,  then,  as  weU  as  bHnd,  that  he  talked  to 
himself?  Maisie's  heart  beat  more  wildly,  and  she 
breathed  in  gasps.  Dick  rose  and  began  to  feel  his  way 
across  the  room,  touching  each  table  and  chair  as  he 
passed.  Once  he  caught  his  foot  on  a  rug,  and  swore,  drop- 
ping on  his  knees  to  feel  what  the  obstruction  might  be. 
Maisie  remembered  him  walking  in  the  Park  as  though  all 
the  earth  belonged  to  him,  tramping  up  and  down  her 


xm  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  219 

studio  two  months  ago,  and  flying  up  the  gangway  of  the 
Channel  steamer.  The  beating  of  her  heart  was  making 
her  sick,  and  Dick  was  coming  nearer,  guided  by  the  sound 
of  her  breathing.  She  put  out  a  hand  mechanically  to 
ward  him  off  or  to  draw  him  to  herself,  she  did  not  know 
which.  It  touched  his  chest,  and  he  stepped  back  as 
though  he  had  been  shot, 

'It's  Maisie!'  said  he,  with  a  dry  sob.  'What  are  you 
doing  here.^ ' 

*I  came — I  came — to  see  you,  please.' 

Dick's  lips  closed  firmly. 

'Won't  you  sit  down,  then?  You  see,  I've  had  some 
bother  with  my  eyes,  and ' 

'  I  know.     I  know.     Why  didn't  you  tell  me? ' 

'I  couldn't  write.' 

'You  might  have  told  Mr.  Torpenhow.* 

'What  has  he  to  do  with  my  affairs? ' 

'He — he  brought  me  from  Vitry-sur-Marne.  He 
thought  I  ought  to  see  you.' 

'Why,  what  has  happened?  Can  I  do  anything  for 
you?     No,  I  can't.     I  forgot.' 

'Oh,  Dick,  I'm  so  sorry!     I've  come  to  tell  you,  and 

Let  me  take  you  back  to  your  chair.' 

'Don't!  I'm  not  a  child.  You  only  do  that  out  of 
pity.  I  never  meant  to  tell  you  anything  about  it.  I'm 
no  good  now.     I'm  down  and  done  for.     Let  me  alone!' 

He  groped  back  to  his  chair,  his  chest  labouring  as  he 
sat  down. 

Maisie  watched  him,  and  the  fear  went  out  of  her  heart, 


220  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  chap. 

to  be  followed  by  a  very  bitter  shame.  He  had  spoken 
a  truth  that  had  been  hidden  from  the  girl  through  every 
step  of  the  impetuous  flight  to  London;  for  he  was,  indeed, 
down  and  done  for — masterful  no  longer  but  rather  a  little 
abject;  neither  an  artist  stronger  than  she,  nor  a  man  to  be 
looked  up  to — only  some  blind  one  that  sat  in  a  chair  and 
seemed  on  the  point  of  cr>dng.  She  was  immensely  and 
unfeignedly  sorry  for  him — more  sorry  than  she  had  ever 
been  for  any  one  in  her  life,  but  not  sorry  enough  to  deny 
his  words.  So  she  stood  still  and  felt  ashamed  and  a  little 
hurt,  because  she  had  honestly  intended  that  her  journey 
should  end  triumphantly;  and  now  she  was  only  filled 
with  pity  most  startlingly  distinct  from  love. 

'  Well? '  said  Dick,  his  face  steadily  turned  away.  'I 
never  meant  to  worry  you  any  more.    WTiat's  the  matter?* 

He  was  conscious  that  Maisie  was  catching  her  breath, 
but  was  as  unprepared  as  herself  for  the  torrent  of  em^otion 
that  followed.  She  had  dropped  into  a  chair  and  was 
sobbing  with  her  face  hidden  in  her  hands. 

'I  can't — I  can't!'  she  cried  desperately.  'Indeed,  I 
can't.  It  isn't  my  fault.  I'm  so  sorry.  Oh,  Dickie,  I'm 
so  sorry.' 

Dick's  shoulders  straightened  again,  for  the  words 
lashed  like  a  whip.  StiU  the  sobbing  continued.  It  is 
not  good  to  realise  that  you  have  failed  in  the  hour  of  trial 
or  flinched  before  the  mere  possibility  of  making  sacrifices. 

'I  do  despise  myself — indeed  I  do.  But  I  can't. 
Oh,  Dickie,  you  wouldn't  ask  me — would  you?'  wailed 
Maisie. 


xm  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAH^ED  221 

She  looked  up  for  a  minute,  and  by  chance  it  happened 
that  Dick's  eyes  fell  on  hers.  The  unshaven  face  was 
very  white  and  set,  and  the  lips  were  trying  to  force  them- 
selves into  a  smile.  But  it  was  the  worn-out  eyes  that 
Maisie  feared.  Her  Dick  had  gone  blind  and  left  in  his 
place  some  one  that  she  could  hardly  recognise  till  he 
spoke. 

'  Who  is  asking  you  to  do  anything,  Maisie?  I  told  you 
how  it  would  be.  What's  the  use  of  worr\dng?  For 
pity's  sake  don't  cry  like  that;  it  isn't  v/orth  it.' 

'You  don't  know  how  I  hate  myself.  Oh,  Dick,  help 
me — help  me !'  The  passion  of  tears  had  grown  beyond 
her  control  and  was  beginning  to  alarm  the  man.  He 
stumbled  forward  and  put  his  arm  round  her,  and  her 
head  fell  on  his  shoulder. 

'Hush,  dear,  hush!  Don't  cry.  You're  quite  right, 
and  you've  nothing  to  reproach  yourself  with— you  never 
had.  You're  only  a  little  upset  by  the  journey,  and  I 
don't  suppose  you've  had  any  breakfast.  What  a  brute 
Torp  was  to  bring  you  over.' 

'  I  wanted  to  come.     I  did  indeed,'  she  protested. 

'  Very  well.  And  now  you've  come  and  seen,  and  I'm 
— immensely  grateful.  When  you're  better  you  shall  go 
away  and  get  something  to  eat.  What  sort  of  a  passage 
did  you  have  coming  over? ' 

Maisie  was  crying  more  subduedly,  for  the  first  time  in 
her  Hfe  glad  that  she  had  something  to  lean  against.  Dick 
patted  her  on  the  shoulder  tenderly  but  clumsily,  for  he 
was  not  quite  sure  where  her  shoulder  might  be. 


222  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAH^ED  chap. 

She  drew  herself  out  of  his  arms  at  last  and  waited, 
trembling  and  most  unhappy.  He  had  felt  his  way  to  the 
window  to  put  the  width  of  the  room  between  them,  and 
to  quiet  a  Kttle  the  tumult  in  his  heart. 

'Are  you  better  now? '  he  said. 

'Yes,  but — don't  you  hate  me?' 

'I  hate  you?     My  God!    I?' 

'Isn't — isn't  there  anything  I  could  do  for  you,  then? 
I'll  stay  here  in  England  to  do  it,  if  you  lilve.  Perhaps  I 
could  come  and  see  you  sometimes.' 

'  I  think  not,  dear.  It  would  be  kindest  not  to  see  me 
any  more,  please.  I  don't  want  to  seem  rude,  but — don't 
you  think — perhaps  you  had  almost  better  go  now.' 

He  was  conscious  that  he  could  not  bear  himself  as  a 
man  if  the  strain  continued  much  longer. 

' I  don't  deserve  anything  else.  I'll  go,  Dick.  Oh,  I'm 
so  miserable.' 

'Nonsense.  You've  nothing  to  worry  about;  I'd  tell 
you  if  you  had.  Wait  a  moment,  dear.  I've  got  some- 
thing to  give  you  first.  I  meant  it  for  you  ever  since 
this  little  trouble  began.  It's  my  MelancoHa;  she  was  a 
beauty  when  I  last  saw  her.  You  can  keep  her  for  me,  and 
if  ever  you're  poor  you  can  sell  her.  She's  worth  a  few 
hundreds  at  any  state  of  the  market.'  He  groped  among 
his  canvases.  'She's  framed  in  black.  Is  this  a  black 
frame  that  I  have  my  hand  on?  There  she  is.  What  do 
you  think  of  her? ' 

He  turned  a  scarred  formless  muddle  of  paint  towards 
Maisie,  and  the  eyes  strained  as  though  they  would  catch 


xni  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  223 

her  wonder  and  surprise.  One  thing  and  one  thing  only 
could  she  do  for  him. 

'Well?' 

The  voice  was  fuller  and  more  rounded,  because  the 
man  knew  he  was  speaking  of  his  best  work.  Maisie 
looked  at  the  blur,  and  a  lunatic  desire  to  laugh  caught 
her  by  the  throat.  But  for  Dick's  sake — whatever  this 
mad  blankness  might  mean — she  must  make  no  sign. 
Her  voice  choked  with  hard-held  tears  as  she  answered, 
still  gazing  at  the  wreck — 

'Oh,  Dick,  it  w  good!' 

He  heard  the  Uttle  hysterical  gulp  and  took  it  for 
tribute.  'Won't  you  have  it,  then?  I'll  send  it  over  to 
your  house  if  you  will.' 

'I?  Oh  yes — thank  you.  Ha!  ha!'  If  she  did  not 
fly  at  once  the  laughter  that  was  worse  than  tears  would 
kill  her.  She  turned  and  ran,  choking  and  blinded,  down 
the  staircases  that  were  empty  of  Hfe  to  take  refuge  in  a 
cab  and  go  to  her  house  across  the  Parks.  There  she  sat 
down  in  the  dismantled  drawing-room  and  thought  of 
Dick  in  his  bHndness,  useless  till  the  end  of  hfe,  and  of 
herself  in  her  own  eyes.  Behind  the  sorrow,  the  shame, 
and  the  humiliation,  lay  fear  of  the  cold  wrath  of  the  red- 
haired  girl  when  Maisie  should  return.  Maisie  had  never 
feared  her  companion  before.  Not  until  she  found  her- 
self saying,  'Well,  he  never  asked  me,'  did  she  reahse  her 
scorn  of  herself. 

And  that  is  the  end  of  Maisie, 


224  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  chap. 

For  Dick  was  reserved  more  searching  torment.  He 
could  not  reaKse  at  first  that  Maisie,  whom  he  had 
ordered  to  go  had  left  him  without  a  word  of  farewell.  He 
was  savagely  angry  against  Torpenhow,  who  had  brought 
upon  him  this  humihation  and  troubled  his  miserable 
peace.  Then  his  dark  hour  came  and  he  was  alone  with 
himseK  and  his  desires  to  get  what  help  he  could  from  the 
darkness.  The  queen  could  do  no  wrong,  but  in  following 
the  right,  so  far  as  it  served  her  work,  she  had  wounded 
her  one  subject  more  than  his  own  brain  would  let  him 
know. 

'It's  all  I  had  and  I've  lost  it,'  he  said,  as  soon  as  the 
misery  permitted  clear  thinking.  'And  Torp  will  think 
that  he  has  been  so  infernally  clever  that  I  shan't  have  the 
heart  to  tell  him.     I  must  think  this  out  quietly.' 

'Hullo! '  said  Torpenhow,  entermg  the  studio  after  Dick 
had  enjoyed  two  hours  of  thought.  'I'm  back.  Are  you 
feeling  any  better? ' 

'Torp,  I  don't  know  what  to  say.  Come  here.'  Dick 
coughed  huskily,  wondering,  indeed,  what  he  should  say, 
and  how  to  say  it  temperately. 

'What's  the  need  for  saying  anything?  Get  up  and 
tramp.'     Torpenhow  was  perfectly  satisfied. 

They  walked  up  and  down  as  of  custom,  Torpenhow's 
hand  on  Dick's  shoulder,  and  Dick  buried  in  his  own 
thoughts. 

'How  in  the  world  did  you  find  it  all  out? '  said  Dick,  at 
last. 

'You  shouldn't  go  ofl  your  head  if  you  want  to  keep 


xm  THE  LIGHT  TH.\T  FAILED  225 

secrets,  Dickie.  It  was  absolutely  impertinent  on  my 
part;  but  if  you'd  seen  me  rocketing  about  on  a  half- 
trained  French  troop-horse  under  a  blazing  sun  you'd 
have  laughed.  There  will  be  a  charivari  in  my  rooms  to- 
night.    Seven  other  devils ' 

'I  know— the  row  in  the  Southern  Soudan.  I  sur- 
prised their  councils  the  other  day,  and  it  made  me 
unhappy.  Have  you  fixed  your  flint  to  go?  Who 
d'you  work  for?' 

'Haven't  signed  any  contracts  yet.  I  wanted  to  see 
how  your  business  would  turn  out.' 

'Would  you  have  stayed  with  me,  then,  if — things  had 
gone  wrong? '     He  put  his  question  cautiously. 

'  Don't  ask  me  too  much.     I'm  only  a  man.' 

'You've  tried  to  be  an  angel  very  successfully.' 

'Oh  ye — es!  .  .  .  Well,  do  you  attend  the  func- 
tion to-night?  We  shall  be  half  screwed  before  the 
morning.     All  the  men  believe  the  war's  a  certainty.' 

'I  don't  think  I  will,  old  man,  if  it's  all  the  same  to  you. 
I'll  stay  quiet  here.' 

'And  meditate?  I  don't  blame  you.  You  deserve  a 
good  time  if  ever  a  man  did.' 

That  night  there  was  a  tumult  on  the  stairs.  The  cor- 
respondents poured  in  from  theatre,  dinner,  and  music- 
hall  to  Torpenhow's  room  that  they  might  discuss  their 
plan  of  campaign  in  the  event  of  mihtary  operations  being 
a  certainty.  Torpenhow,  the  Keneu,  and  the  Nilghai  had 
bidden  all  the  men  they  had  worked  with  to  the  orgy;  and 
Mr.  Beeton,  the  housekeeper,  declared  that  never  before 


2  26  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  chap. 

in  his  checkered  experience  had  he  ^een  quite  such  a  fancy 
lot  of  gentlemen.  They  waked  the  chambers  with  shout- 
ings and  song;  and  the  elder  men  were  quite  as  bad  as  the 
younger.  For  the  chances  of  war  were  in  front  of  them, 
and  all  knew  what  those  meant. 

Sitting  in  his  own  room  a  little  perplexed  by  the  noise 
across  the  landing,  Dick  suddenly  began  to  laugh  to  him- 
self. 

*\Vhen  one  comes  to  think  of  it  the  situation  is  in- 
tensely comic.  Maisie's  quite  right— poor  little  thing.  I 
didn't  know  she  could  cry  like  that  before ;  but  now  I  know 
what  Torp  thinks,  I'm  sure  he'd  be  quite  fool  enough  to 
stay  at  home  and  try  to  console  me — if  he  knew.  Be- 
sides, it  isn't  nice  to  own  that  you've  been  thrown  over 
like  a  broken  chair.  I  must  carry  this  business  through 
alone — as  usual.  If  there  isn't  a  war,  and  Torp  finds  out, 
I  shall  look  foolish,  that's  all.  If  there  is  a  war  I  mustn't 
interfere  with  another  man's  chances.  Business  is  busi- 
ness, and  I  want  to  be  alone — I  want  to  be  alone.  What 
a  row  they're  making! ' 

Somebody  hammered  at  the  studio  door. 

'  Come  out  and  frolic,  Dickie,'  said  the  Nilghai. 

*I  should  like  to,  but  I  can't.  I'm  not  feeHng  frolic- 
some.' 

'Then,  I'll  tell  the  boys  and  they'll  draw  you  like  a 
badger.' 

'Please  not,  old  man.  On  my  word,  I'd  sooner  be  left 
alone  just  now.' 

'Very  good.     Can  v/e  send  anything  in  to  you?    Fizz, 


XIII 


THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  227 


for  instance.  Cassavetti  is  beginning  to  sing  songs  of  the 
Sunny  South  already.' 

For  one  minute  Dick  considered  the  proposition 
seriously. 

'No,  thanks,  I've  a  headache  already.' 

'Virtuous  child.  That's  the  effect  of  emotion  on  the 
young.  All  my  congratulations,  Dick.  I  also  was  con- 
cerned in  the  conspiracy  for  your  welfare.' 

'  Go  to  the  devil  and — oh,  send  Binkie  in  here.' 

The  Httle  dog  entered  on  elastic  feet,  riotous  from  hav- 
ing been  made  much  of  all  the  evening.  He  had  helped  to 
sing  the  choruses;  but  scarcely  inside  the  studio  he 
reaHsed  that  this  was  no  place  for  tail-wagging,  and 
settled  himself  on  Dick's  lap  till  it  was  bedtime.  Then  he 
went  to  bed  with  Dick,  who  counted  every  hour  as  it 
struck,  and  rose  in  the  morning  with  a  painfully  clear 
head  to  receive  Torpenhow's  more  formal  congratulations 
and  a  particular  account  of  the  last  night's  revels. 

'You  aren't  looking  very  happy  for  a  newly  accepted 
man,'  said  Torpenhow. 

'Never  mind  that— it's  my  own  affair,  and  I'm  all 
right.     Do  you  really  go? ' 

'Yes.  With  the  old  Central  Southern  as  usual. 
They  wired,  and  I  accepted  on  better  terms  than 
before.' 

'  When  do  you  start? ' 

'The  day  after  to-morrow — for  Brindisi.' 

'Thank  God.'  Dick  spoke  from  the  bottom  of  his 
heart. 


228  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  chap. 

'Well,  that's  not  a  pretty  way  of  saying  you're  glad  to 
get  rid  of  me.  But  men  in  your  condition  are  allowed  to 
be  selfish.' 

'I  didn't  mean  that.  Will  you  get  a  hundred  pounds 
cashed  for  me  before  you  leave? ' 

'That's  a  slender  amount  for  housekeeping,  isn't  it? ' 

'Oh,  it's  only  for — ^marriage  expenses.' 

Torpenhow  brought  him  the  money,  counted  it  out  in 
fives  and  tens,  and  carefully  put  it  away  in  the  writing 
table. 

'Now  I  suppose  I'll  have  to  listen  to  his  ravings  about 
his  girl  until  I  go.  Heaven  send  us  patience  with  a  man 
in  love! '  said  he  to  himself. 

But  never  a  word  did  Dick  say  of  Maisie  or  marriage. 
He  hung  in  the  doorway  of  Torpenhow's  room  when  the 
latter  was  packing  and  asked  innumerable  questions 
about  the  coming  campaign,  till  Torpenhow  began  to  feel 
annoyed. 

'You're  a  secretive  animal,  Dickie,  and  you  consume 
your  own  smoke,  don't  you?'  he  said  on  the  last  evening. 

'  I — I  suppose  so.  By  the  way,  how  long  do  you  think 
this  war  will  last? ' 

'Days,  weeks,  or  months.  One  can  never  tell.  It 
may  go  on  for  years.' 

'I  wish  I  were  going.' 

'  Good  heavens !  You're  the  most  unaccountable  crea- 
ture! Hasn't  it  occurred  to  you  that  you're  going  to  be 
married — thanks  to  me? ' 

'Of  course,  yes.     I'm  going  to  be  married — so  I  am. 


xin  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  229 

Going  to  be  married.  I'm  awfully  grateful  to  you. 
Haven't  I  told  you  that? ' 

'You  might  be  going  to  be  hanged  by  the  look  of  you/ 
said  Torpenhow. 

And  the  next  day  Torpenhow  bade  him  good-bye  and 
left  him  to  the  loneHness  he  had  so  much  desired. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

Yet  at  the  last,  ere  our  spearmen  had  found  him, 

Yet  at  the  last,  ere  a  sword-thrust  could  save. 
Yet  at  the  last,  with  his  masters  around  him, 

He  of  the  Faith  spoke  as  master  to  slave; 
Yet  at  the  last,  tho'  the  Kafirs  had  maimed  him, 

Broken  by  bondage  and  wrecked  by  the  reiver, — 
Yet  at  the  last,  tho'  the  darkness  had  claimed  him, 

He  called  upon  AUah  and  died  a  believer. 

— Kizzilbashi. 

*Beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Heldar,  but — but  isn't  no  thin' 
going  to  happen? '  said  Mr.  Beeton. 

'No!'  Dick  had  just  waked  to  another  morning  of 
blank  despair  and  his  temper  was  of  the  shortest. 

"Tain't  my  regular  business,  o'  course,  sir;  and  what  I 
say  is,  "Mind  you  own  business  and  let  other  people  mind 
theirs; "  but  just  before  Mr.  Torpenhow  went  away  he  give 
me  to  understand,  like,  that  you  might  be  moving  into  a 
house  of  your  own,  so  to  speak — a  sort  of  house  with  rooms 
upstairs  and  downstairs  where  you'd  be  better  attended  to, 
though  I  try  to  act  just  by  all  our  tenants.     Don't  I?' 

'All!  That  must  have  been  a  mad-house.  I  shan't 
trouble  you  to  take  me  there  yet.  Get  me  my  breakfast, 
please,  and  leave  me  alone.' 

230 


CHAP.  XIV  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  231 

'I  hope  I  haven't  done  anything  wrong,  sir,  but  you 
know  I  hope  that  as  far  as  a  man  can  I  tries  to  do  the 
proper  thing  by  all  the  gentlemen  in  chambers — and  more 
particular  those  whose  lot  is  hard — such  as  you,  for  in- 
stance, Mr.  Heldar.  You  likes  soft-roe  bloater,  don't 
you?  Soft  roe-bloaters  is  scarcer  than  hard-roe,  but 
what  I  says  is,  ''Never  mind  a  little  extra  trouble  so  long 
as  you  gives  satisfaction  to  the  tenants." ' 

Mr.  Beeton  withdrew  and  left  Dick  to  himself.  Tor- 
penhow  had  been  long  away ;  there  was  no  more  rioting  in 
the  chambers,  and  Dick  had  settled  down  to  his  new  hfe, 
which  he  was  weak  enough  to  consider  nothing  better  than 
death. 

It  is  hard  to  live  alone  in  the  dark,  confusing  the  day  and 
night;  dropping  to  sleep  through  sheer  weariness  at  mid- 
day, and  rising  restless  in  the  chill  of  the  dawn.  At  first 
Dick,  on  his  awakenings,  would  grope  along  the  corridors 
of  the  chambers  till  he  heard  some  one  snore.  Then  he 
would  know  that  the  day  had  not  yet  come,  and  return 
wearily  to  his  bedroom.  Later  he  learned  not  to  stir  till 
there  was  a  noise  and  movement  in  the  house  and  Mr. 
Beeton  advised  him  to  get  up.  Once  dressed — and  dress- 
ing, now  that  Torpenhow  was  away,  was  a  lengthy 
business,  because  collars,  ties,  and  the  like  hid  them- 
selves in  far  corners  of  the  room,  and  search  meant  head- 
beating  against  chairs  and  trunks— once  dressed,  there 
was  nothing  whatever  to  do  except  to  sit  still  and  brood  till 
the  three  daily  meals  came.  Centuries  separated  break- 
fast from  lunch  and  lunch  from  dinner,  and  though  a 


232  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  chap. 

man  prayed  for  hundreds  of  years  that  his  mind  might 
be  taken  from  him,  God  would  never  hear.  Rather  the 
mind  was  quickened  and  the  revolving  thoughts  ground 
against  each  other  as  millstones  grind  when  there  is  no 
corn  between;  and  yet  the  brain  would  not  wear  out  and 
give  him  rest.  It  continued  to  think,  at  length,  with 
imagery  and  all  manner  of  reminiscences.  It  recalled 
Maisie  and  past  success,  reckless  travels  by  land  and  sea, 
the  glory  of  doing  work  and  feehng  that  it  was  good,  and 
suggested  all  that  might  have  happened  had  the  eyes  only 
been  faithful  to  their  duty.  When  thinking  ceased 
through  sheer  weariness,  there  poured  into  Dick's  soul 
tide  on  tide  of  overwhelming,  purposeless  fear — dread  of 
starvation  always,  terror  lest  the  unseen  ceiling  should 
crush  down  upon  him,  fear  of  fire  in  the  chambers  and  a 
louse's  death  in  red  flame,  and  agonies  of  fiercer  horror 
that  had  nothing  to  do  with  any  fear  of  death.  Then 
Dick  bowed  his  head,  and  clutching  the  arms  of  his  chair 
fought  with  his  sweating  self  till  the  tinkle  of  plates  told 
him  that  something  to  eat  was  being  set  before  him. 

Mr,  Bee  ton  would  bring  the  meal  when  he  had  time  to 
spare,  and  Dick  learned  to  hang  upon  his  speech, which 
dealt  with  badly  fitted  gas-plugs,  waste-pipes  out  of  re- 
pair, Httle  tricks  for  driving  picture-nails  into  walls,  and 
the  sins  of  the  charwoman  or  the  housemaids.  In  the 
lack  of  better  things  the  small  gossip  of  a  servant's  hall  be- 
comes immensely  interesting,  and  the  screwing  of  a 
washer  on  a  tap  an  event  to  be  talked  over  for  days. 

Once  or  twice  a  week,  too,  Mr.  Beeton  would  take 


XIV  THE  LIGPIT  THAT  FAH^ED  233 

Dick  out  with  him  when  he  went  marketing  in  the  morn- 
ing to  haggle  with  tradesmen  over  fish,  lamp-wicks, 
mustard,  tapioca,  and  so  forth,  while  Dick  rested  his 
weight  first  on  one  foot  and  then  on  the  other  and  played 
aimlessly  with  the  tins  and  string-ball  on  the  counter. 
Then  they  would  perhaps  meet  one  of  Mr.  Beeton's 
friends,  and  Dick,  standing  aside  a  Httle,  would  hold  his 
peace  till  Mr.  Beeton  was  wilHng  to  go  on  again. 

The  Hfe  did  not  increase  his  self-respect.  He  aban- 
doned sha\dng  as  a  dangerous  exercise,  and  being  shaved 
in  a  barber's  shop  meant  exposure  of  his  infirmity.  He 
could  not  see  that  his  clothes  were  properly  brushed,  and 
since  he  had  never  taken  any  care  of  his  personal  appear- 
ance he  became  every  known  variety  of  sloven.  A  bHnd 
man  cannot  eat  with  cleanliness  till  he  has  been  some 
months  used  to  the  darkness.  If  he  demand  attendance 
and  grow  angry  at  the  want  of  it,  he  must  assert  himself 
and  stand  upright.  Then  the  meanest  menial  can  see  that 
he  is  blind  and,  therefore,  of  no  consequence.  A  wise 
man  will  keep  his  eyes  on  the  floor  and  sit  still.  For 
amusement  he  may  pick  coal  lump  by  lump  out  of  the 
scuttle  with  the  tongs  and  pile  it  in  a  Httle  heap  in  the 
fender,  keeping  count  of  the  lumps,  which  must  all  be  put 
back  again,  one  by  one  and  very  carefully.  He  may  set 
himself  sums  if  he  cares  to  work  them  out;  he  may  talk  to 
himself  or  to  the  cat  if  she  chooses  to  \asit  him ;  and  if  his 
trade  has  been  that  of  an  artist,  he  may  sketch  in  the  air 
with  his  forefinger;  but  that  is  too  much  like  drawing  a  pig 
with  the  eyes  shut.     He  may  go  to  his  bookshelves  and 


234  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  chap. 

count  his  books,  ranging  them  in  order  of  their  size;  or  to 
his  wardrobe  and  count  liis  shirts,  laying  them  in  piles  of 
two  or  three  on  the  bed,  as  they  suffer  from  frayed  cuffs  or 
lost  buttons.  Even  this  entertainment  wearies  after  a 
time ;  and  all  the  times  are  very,  very  long. 

Dick  was  allowed  to  sort  a  tool-chest  where  Mr.  Beeton 
kept  hammers,  taps  and  nuts,  lengths  of  gas-pipes,  oil- 
bottles,  and  string. 

'  If  I  don't  have  everything  just  where  I  know  where  to 
look  for  it,  why,  then,  I  can't  find  anything  when  I  do 
want  it.  You've  no  idea,  sir,  the  amount  of  little  tilings 
that  these  chambers  uses  up,'  said  Mr.  Beeton.  Fum- 
bling at  the  handle  of  the  door  as  he  went  out : '  It's  hard  on 
you,  sir,  I  do  think  it's  hard  on  you.  Ain't  you  going  to 
do  anything,  sir? ' 

*  I'll  pay  my  rent  and  messing.     Isn't  that  enough? ' 

*  I  wasn't  doubting  for  a  moment  that  you  couldn't  pay 
your  way,  sir;  but  I  'ave  often  said  to  my  wife,  "It's  'ard 
on  'im  because  it  isn't  as  if  he  was  an  old  man,  nor  yet  a 
middle-aged  one,  but  quite  a  young  gentleman.  That's 
where  it  comes  so  'ard." ' 

'I  suppose  so,'  said  Dick,  absently.  This  particular 
nerve  through  long  battering  had  ceased  to  feel — much. 

'I  was  thinking,'  continued  Mr.  Beeton,  still  making  as 
if  to  go,  '  that  you  might  like  to  hear  my  boy  Alf  read  you 
the  papers  sometimes  of  an  evening.  He  do  read  beauti- 
ful, seeing  he's  only  nine.' 

'I  should  be  very  grateful,'  said  Dick.  'Only  let  me 
make  it  worth  his  while.' 


XIV  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  235 

'We  wasn't  thinking  of  that,  sir,  but  of  course  it's  in 
your  own  'ands;  but  only  to  'ear  ^\Jf  sing  "A  Boy's  best 
Friend  is  'is  Mother!"     Ah!' 

'I'll  hear  him  sing  that  too.  Let  him  come  in  this 
evening  with  the  newspapers.' 

Alf  was  not  a  nice  child,  being  puffed  up  with  many 
school-board  certificates  for  good  conduct,  and  inordi- 
nately proud  of  his  singing.  Mr.  Beeton  remained,  beam- 
ing, while  the  child  wailed  his  way  through  a  song  of  some 
eight  eight-line  verses  in  the  usual  whine  of  the  young 
Cockney,  and,  after  compliments,  left  him  to  read  Dick 
the  foreign  telegrams.  Ten  minutes  later  Alf  returned  to 
his  parents  rather  pale  and  scared. 

'  'E  said  'e  couldn't  stand  it  no  more,'  he  explained. 

'He  never  said  you  read  badly,  Alf?'  Mrs.  Beeton 
spoke. 

'  No.  'E  said  I  read  beautiful.  Said  'e  never  'eard  any 
one  read  like  that,  but  'e  said  'e  couldn't  abide  the  stuff  in 
the  papers.' 

'P'raps  he's  lost  some  money  in  the  Stocks.  Were  you 
readin'  him  about  Stocks,  Alf?' 

'No;  it  was  all  about  fightin'  out  there  where  the  sol- 
diers is  gone — a  great  long  piece  with  all  the  lines  close  to- 
gether and  very  hard  words  in  it.  'E  give  me  'arf  a  crown 
because  I  read  so  well.  And  'e  says  the  next  time  there's 
anything  'e  wants  read  'e'U  send  for  me.' 

'That's  good  hearing,  but  I  do  think  for  all  the  half- 
crown — put  it  into  the  kicking-donkey  money-box,  Alf, 
and  let  me  see  you  do  it — he  might  have  kept  you  longer. 


236  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  chap. 

Why,  he  couldn't  have  begun  to  understand  how  beauti- 
ful you  read.' 

'He's  best  left  to  hisself— gentlemen  always  are  when 
they're  downhearted,'  said  Mr.  Beeton. 

Alf 's  rigorously  limited  powers  of  comprehending  Tor- 
penhow's  special  correspondence  had  waked  the  devil  of 
unrest  in  Dick.  He  could  hear,  through  the  boy's  nasal 
chant,  the  camels  grunting  in  the  squares  behind  the 
soldiers  outside  Suakin ;  could  hear  the  men  swearing  and 
chaffing  across  the  cooking  pots,  and  could  smell  the  acrid 
wood-smoke  as  it  drifted  over  the  camp  before  the  wind 
of  the  desert. 

That  night  he  prayed  to  God  that  his  mind  might  be 
taken  from  him,  offering  for  proof  that  he  was  worthy  of 
this  favour  the  fact  that  he  had  not  shot  himself  long  ago. 
That  prayer  was  not  answered,  and  indeed  Dick  knew  in 
his  heart  of  hearts  that  only  a  Ungering  sense  of  humour 
and  no  special  virtue  had  kept  him  alive.  Suicide,  he  had 
persuaded  himself,  would  be  ludicrous  insult  to  the  gravity 
of  the  situation  as  well  as  a  weak-kneed  confession  of  fear. 

'Just  for  the  fun  of  the  thing,'  he  said  to  the  cat,  who 
had  taken  Binkie's  place  in  his  establishment,  'I  should 
like  to  know  how  long  this  is  going  to  last.  I  can  hve  for  a 
year  on  the  hundred  pounds  Torp  cashed  for  me.  I  must 
have  two  or  three  thousand  at  least  at  the  Bank — twenty 
or  thirty  years  more  provided  for,  that  is  to  say.  Then  I 
fall  back  on  my  hundred  and  twenty  a  year,  which  will  be 
more  by  that  time.  Let's  consider.  Twenty-five — 
thirty-five — a  man's  in  his  prime  then,  they  say — forty- 


XIV  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAH^ED  237 

five — a  middle-aged  man  Just  entering  politics — fifty-five 
— "died  at  the  comparatively  early  age  of  fifty-five," 
according  to  the  newspapers.  Bah!  How  these  Chris- 
tians funk  death!  Sixty-five — we're  only  getting  on  in 
years.  Seventy-five  is  just  possible,  though.  Great  hell, 
cat  O !  fifty  years  more  of  solitary  confinement  in  the  dark ! 
You'll  die,  and  Beeton  will  die,  and  Torp  will  die,  and 
Mai — everybody  else  will  die,  but  I  shall  be  alive  and 
kicking  with  nothing  to  do.  I'm  very  sorry  for  myself.  I 
should  like  some  one  else  to  be  sorry  for  me.  Evidently 
I'm  not  going  mad  before  I  die,  but  the  pain's  just  as  bad 
as  ever.  Some  day  when  you're  vivisected,  cat  0 !  they'll 
tie  you  down  on  a  Httle  table  and  cut  you  open — but 
don't  be  afraid;  they'll  take  precious  good  care  that  you 
don't  die.  You'U  live,  and  you'll  be  very  sorry  then  that 
you  weren't  sorry  for  me.  Perhaps  Torp  will  come  back 
or  ...  I  wish  I  could  go  to  Torp  and  the  Nilghai, 
even  though  I  were  in  their  way.' 

Pussy  left  the  room  before  the  speech  was  ended,  and 
Alf,  as  he  entered,  found  Dick  addressing  the  empty 
hearth-rug. 

'There's  a  letter  for  you,  sir,'  he  said.  'Perhaps  you'd 
like  me  to  read  it.' 

'Lend  it  to  me  for  a  minute  and  I'll  tell  you.' 

The  outstretched  hand  shook  just  a  httle  and  the  voice 
was  not  over-steady.  It  was  within  the  limits  of  human 
possibihty  that — that  was  no  letter  from  Maisie.  He  knew 
the  heft  of  three  closed  envelopes  only  too  well.  It  was  a 
foolish  hope  that  the  girl  should  write  to  him,  for  he  did  not 


238  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  chap. 

realise  that  there  is  a  wrong  which  admits  of  no  reparation 
though  the  e\ildoer  may  with  tears  and  the  heart's  best 
love  strive  to  mend  all.  It  is  best  to  forget  that  wrong 
whether  it  be  caused  or  endured,  since  it  is  as  remediless  as 
bad  work  once  put  forward. 

'Read  it,  then,'  said  Dick,  and  Alf  began  intoning  ac- 
cording to  the  rules  of  the  Board  School — 

' "/  could  have  given  you  love,  I  could  have  given  you 
loyalty,  such  as  you  never  dreamed  of.  Do  you  suppose  I 
cared  what  you  were  ?  But  you  chose  to  whistle  everything 
doivn  the  wind  for  nothing.  My  only  excuse  for  you  is  that 
you  are  so  young.''^ 

'That's  all,'  he  said,  returning  the  paper  to  be  dropped 
into  the  fire. 

'What  was  in  the  letter?'  asked  Mrs.  Beeton,  when  Alf 
returned. 

'I  don't  know.  I  think  it  was  a  circular  or  a  tract 
about  not  whistlin'  at  everything  when  you're  young.' 

'I  must  have  stepped  on  sometliing  when  I  was  alive 
and  walking  about  and  it  has  bounced  up  and  hit  me.  God 
help  it,  whatever  it  is— unless  it  was  all  a  joke.  But  I 
don't  know  any  one  who'd  take  the  trouble  to  play  a  joke 
on  me.  .  .  .  Love  and  loyalty  for  nothing.  It 
sounds  tempting  enough.  I  wonder  whether  I  have  lost 
anything  really? ' 

Dick  considered  for  a  long  time  but  could  not  re- 
member when  or  how  he  had  put  himself  in  the  way  of 
winning  these  trifles  at  a  woman's  hands. 

Stih,  the  letter  as  touching  on  matters  that  he  preferred 


XIV  THE  LIGHT  TH.VT  FAILED  239 

not  to  think  about  stung  him  into  a  fit  of  frenzy  that  lasted 
for  a  day  and  night.  When  his  heart  was  so  full  of  despair 
that  it  would  hold  no  more,  body  and  soul  together  seemed 
to  be  dropping  without  check  through  the  darkness. 
Then  came  fear  of  darkness  and  desperate  attempts  to 
reach  the  light  again.  But  there  was  no  light  to  be 
reached.  When  that  agony  had  left  him  sweating  and 
breathless,  the  downward  flight  would  recommence  till 
the  gathering  torture  of  it  spurred  him  into  another  fight 
as  hopeless  as  the  first.  Followed  some  few  minutes  of 
sleep  in  which  he  dreamed  that  he  saw.  Then  the  pro- 
cession of  events  would  repeat  itself  till  he  was  utterly 
worn  out  and  the  brain  took  up  its  everlasting  considera- 
tion of  Maisie  and  might-have-beens. 

At  the  end  of  everything  Mr.  Bee  ton  came  to  his  room 
and  volunteered  to  take  him  out.  'Not  marketing  this 
time,  but  we'll  go  into  the  Parks  if  you  like.' 

' Be  damned  if  I  do,'  quoth  Dick.  '  Keep  to  the  streets 
and  walk  up  and  down.  I  lilce  to  hear  the  people  round 
me.' 

This  was  not  altogether  true.  The  blind  in  the  first 
stages  of  their  infirmity  dislike  those  who  can  move  with  a 
free  stride  and  unlifted  arms — but  Dick  had  no  earthly 
desire  to  go  to  the  Parks.  Once  and  only  once  since 
Maisie  had  shut  the  door  he  had  gone  there  under  Alf's 
charge.  Alf  forgot  him  and  fished  for  minnows  in  the 
Serpentine  with  some  companions.  After  half  an  hour's 
waiting  Dick,  almost  weeping  with  rage  and  wrath, 
caught  a  passer-by,  who  introduced  him  to  a  friendly 


240  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAH^ED  chap. 

policeman,  who  led  him  to  a  four-wheeler  opposite  the 
Albert  Hall.  He  never  told  Mr.  Beeton  of  Alf's  forget- 
fulness,  but  .  .  .  this  was  not  the  manner  in  which 
he  was  used  to  walk  the  Parks  aforetime. 

'What  streets  would  you  like  to  walk  down,  then?'  said 
Mr.  Beeton,  sympathetically.  His  own  ideas  of  a  riotous 
hohday  meant  picnicking  on  the  grass  of  the  Green  Park 
with  his  family,  and  half  a  dozen  paper  bags  full  of  food. 

'  Keep  to  the  river,'  said  Dick,  and  they  kept  to  the  river, 
and  the  rush  of  it  was  in  his  ears  till  they  came  to  Black- 
friars  Bridge  and  struck  thence  on  to  the  Waterloo  Road, 
Mr.  Beeton  explaining  the  beauties  of  the  scenery  as  he 
went  on. 

'And  walking  on  the  other  side  of  the  pavement,'  said 
he,  'unless  I'm  much  mistaken,  is  the  young  woman  that 
used  to  come  to  your  rooms  to  be  drawed.  I  never  for- 
gets a  face  and  I  never  remembers  a  name,  except  paying 
tenants,  o'  course!' 

'Stop  her,'  said  Dick,  'It's  Bessie  Broke.  Tell  her 
I'd  like  to  speak  to  her  again.     Quick,  man!' 

Mr.  Beeton  crossed  the  road  under  the  noses  of  the 
omnibuses  and  arrested  Bessie  then  on  her  way  northward. 
She  recognised  him  as  the  man  in  authority  who  used  to 
glare  at  her  when  she  passed  up  Dick's  staircase,  and  her 
first  impulse  was  to  run. 

'Wasn't  you  Mr.  Heldar's  model?'  said  Mr.  Beeton, 
planting  himseh  in  front  of  her.  'You  was.  He's  on  the 
other  side  of  the  road  and  he'd  hke  to  see  you.' 

'Why?'  said  Bessie,  faintly.     She    remembered — in- 


xrv  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAH^ED  241 

deed  had  never  for  long  forgotten — an  affair  connected 
with  a  newly  finished  picture. 

'Because  he  has  asked  me  to  do  so,  and  because  he's 
most  particular  blind.' 

'Drunk?' 

'No.  'Orspital  blind.  He  can't  see.  That's  him 
over  there.' 

Dick  was  leaning  against  the  parapet  of  the  bridge  as 
Mr.  Beeton  pointed  him  out — a  stub-bearded,  bowed 
creature  wearing  a  dirty  magenta-coloured  neckcloth  out- 
side an  unbrushed  coat.  There  was  nothing  to  fear  from 
such  an  one.  Even  if  he  chased  her,  Bessie  thought,  he 
could  not  follow  far.  She  crossed  over,  and  Dick's  face 
lighted  up.  It  was  long  since  a  woman  of  any  kind  had 
taken  the  trouble  to  speak  to  him. 

'I  hope  you're  well,  Mr.  Heldar?'  said  Bessie,  a  little 
puzzled.  Mr.  Beeton  stood  by  with  the  air  of  an  am- 
bassador and  breathed  responsibly. 

'I'm  very  well  indeed,  and,  by  Jove!  I'm  glad  to  see — 
hear  you,  I  mean,  Bess.  You  never  thought  it  worth 
while  to  turn  up  and  see  us  again  after  you  got  your 
money.  I  don't  know  why  you  should.  Are  you  going 
anyw^here  in  particular  just  now? ' 

'I  was  going  for  a  walk,'  said  Bessie. 

'Not  the  old  business? '     Dick  spoke  under  his  breath. 

'Lor,  no !  I  paid  my  premium' — Bessie  was  very  proud 
of  that  word — 'for  a  barmaid,  sleeping  in,  and  I'm  at  the 
bar  now  quite  respectable.     Indeed  I  am.' 

Mr.  Beeton  had  no  special  reason  to  believe  in  the  lof  ti- 


242  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  chap. 

ness  of  human  nature.  Therefore  he  dissolved  himself 
like  a  mist  and  returned  to  his  gas-plugs  without  a  word 
of  apology.  Bessie  watched  the  flight  with  a  certain  un- 
easiness; but  so  long  as  Dick  appeared  to  be  ignorant  of 
the  harm  that  had  been  done  to  him     .     .     . 

'It's  hard  work  puUing  the  beer-handles,'  she  went  on, 
'and  they've  got  one  of  them  penny-in-the-slot  cash- 
machines,  so  if  you  get  wrong  by  a  penny  at  the  end  of  the 
day— but  then  I  don't  believe  the  machinery  is  right.  Do 
you?' 

'I've  only  seen  it  work.     Mr.  Beeton.' 

'He's  gone.' 

'I'm  afraid  I  must  ask  you  to  help  me  home,  then.  I'll 
make  it  worth  your  while.  You  see.'  The  sightless  eyes 
turned  towards  her  and  Bessie  saw. 

'It  isn't  taking  you  out  of  your  way?'  he  said  hesitat- 
ingly.    '  I  can  ask  a  policeman  if  it  is. ' 

'Not  at  all.  I  come  on  at  seven  and  I'm  off  at  four. 
That's  easy  hours.' 

'Good  God! — but  I'm  on  all  the  time.  I  wish  I  had 
some  work  to  do  too.     Let's  go  home,  Bess.' 

He  turned  and  cannoned  into  a  man  on  the  sidewalk, 
recoiling  with  an  oath.  Bessie  took  his  arm  and  said 
nothing — as  she  had  said  nothing  when  he  had  ordered 
her  to  turn  her  face  a  Httle  more  to  the  light.  They 
walked  for  some  time  in  silence,  the  girl  steering  him  deftly 
through  the  crowd. 

'And  Where's — where's  Mr.  Torpenhow?'  she  inquired 
at  last. 


XIV  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  243 

'He  has  gone  away  to  the  desert.' 

'Where's  that?' 

Dick  pointed  to  the  right.  '  East — out  of  the  mouth  of 
the  river,'  said  he.  'Then  west,  then  south,  and  then 
east  again,  all  along  the  under-side  of  Europe.  Then 
south  again,  God  knows  how  far.'  The  explanation  did 
not  enUghten  Bessie  in  the  least,  but  she  held  her  tongue 
and  looked  to  Dick's  path  till  they  came  to  the  chambers. 

'We'll  have  tea  and  muffins,'  he  said  joyously.  'I  can't 
tell  you,  Bessie,  how  glad  I  am  to  find  you  again.  What 
made  you  go  away  so  suddenly? ' 

'I  didn't  think  you'd  want  me  any  more,'  she  said, 
emboldened  by  his  ignorance. 

'I  didn't,  as  a  matter  of  fact — but  afterwards — At  any 
rate  I'm  glad  you've  come.     You  know  the  stairs.' 

So  Bessie  led  him  home  to  his  own  place — there  was  no 
one  to  hinder — and  shut  the  door  of  the  studio. 

'What  a  mess!'  was  her  first  word.  'All  these  things 
haven't  been  looked  after  for  months  and  months.' 

'  No,  only  weeks,  Bess.    You  can't  expect  them  to  care.' 

'I  don't  know  what  you  expect  them  to  do.  They 
ought  to  know  what  you've  paid  them  for.  The  dust's 
just  awful.     It's  all  over  the  easel.' 

'I  don't  use  it  much  now.' 

'All  over  the  pictures  and  the  floor,  and  all  over  your 
coat.     I'd  like  to  speak  to  them  housemaids.' 

' Ring  for  tea,  then.'  Dick  felt  his  way  to  the  one  chair 
he  used  by  custom. 

Bessie  saw  the  action  and,  as  far  as  in  her  lay,  was 


244  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  ch.vp. 

touched.  But  there  remained  always  a  keen  sense  of 
new-found  superiority,  and  it  was  in  her  voice  when  she 
spoke. 

'  How  long  have  you  been  like  this? '  she  said  wrath- 
fully,  as  though  the  blindness  were  some  fault  of  the 
housemaids. 

'How?' 

*  As  you  are.' 

'The  day  after  you  went  away  with  tlie  check,  almost 
as  soon  as  my  picture  was  finished;  I  hardly  saw  her 
alive.' 

'Then  they've  been  cheating  you  ever  since,  that's  all. 
I  know  their  nice  little  ways. ' 

A  woman  may  love  one  man  and  despise  another,  but 
on  general  feminine  principles  she  will  do  her  best  to  save 
the  man  she  despises  from  being  defrauded.  Her  loved 
one  can  look  to  himself,  but  the  other  man,  being  obviously 
an  idiot,  needs  protection. 

'I  don't  think  Mr.  Beeton  cheats  much,'  said  Dick. 
Bessie  was  flouncing  up  and  down  the  room,  and  he  was 
conscious  of  a  keen  sense  of  enjoyment  as  he  heard  the 
swish  of  her  skirts  and  the  light  step  between. 

'Tea  and  muffins,'  she  said  shortly,  when  the  ring  at  the 
bell  was  answered ; '  two  teaspoonf uls  and  one  over  for  the 
pot.  I  don't  want  the  old  teapot  that  was  here  when  I 
used  to  come.     It  don't  draw.     Get  another.' 

The  housemaid  went  away  scandalised,  and  Dick 
chuckled.  Then  he  began  to  cough  as  Bessie  banged  up 
and  down  the  studio  disturbing  the  dust. 


XIV  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  245 

'What  are  you  trying  to  do?' 

'  Put  things  straight.  This  is  like  unfurnished  lodgings . 
How  could  you  let  it  go  so? ' 

'How  could  I  help  it?     Dust  away.' 

She  dusted  furiously,  and  in  the  midst  of  aU  the  pother 
entered  Mrs.  Beeton.  Her  husband  on  his  return  had 
explained  the  situation,  winding  up  with  the  pecuharly 
felicitous  proverb,  'Do  unto  others  as  you  would  be  done 
by.'  She  had  descended  to  put  into  her  place  the  person 
who  demanded  muffins  and  an  uncracked  teapot  as 
though  she  had  a  right  to  both. 

'  Muffins  ready  yet? '  said  Bess,  still  dusting.  She  was 
no  longer  a  drab  of  the  streets  but  a  young  lady  who, 
thanks  to  Dick's  check,  had  paid  her  premium  and  was 
entitled  to  pull  beer-handles  with  the  best.  Being  neatly 
dressed  in  black  she  did  not  hesitate  to  face  Mrs.  Beeton, 
and  there  passed  betw^een  the  two  women  certain  regards 
that  Dick  would  have  appreciated.  The  situation  ad- 
justed itself  by  eye.  Bessie  had  won,  and  Mrs.  Beeton 
returned  to  cook  muffms  and  make  scathing  remarks 
about  models,  hussies,  trollops,  and  the  like,  to  her 
husband. 

'There's  nothing  to  be  got  of  interfering  with  him, 
Liza,'  he  said.  '  Alf,  you  go  along  into  the  street  to  play. 
When  he  isn't  crossed  he's  as  kindly  as  kind,  but  when 
he's  crossed  he's  the  devil  and  all.  We  took  too  many 
little  things  out  of  his  rooms  since  he  was  bhnd  to  be  that 
particular  about  what  he  does.  They  ain't  no  objects  to 
a  bhnd  man,  of  course,  but  if  it  was  to  come  into  court 


246  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  chap. 

we'd  get  the  sack.  Yes,  I  did  introduce  him  to  that  girl 
because  I'm  a  feelin'  man  myself.' 

'Much  too  feelin'!'  Mrs.  Beeton  slapped  the  muffins 
into  the  dish,  and  thought  of  comely  housemaids  long 
since  dismissed  on  suspicion. 

'I  ain't  ashamed  of  it,  and  it  isn't  for  us  to  judge  him 
hard  so  long  as  he  pays  quiet  and  regular  as  he  do.  I 
know  how  to  manage  young  gentlemen,  you  know  how  to 
cook  for  them,  and  what  I  says  is,  let  each  stick  to  his  own 
business  and  then  there  won't  be  any  trouble.  Take 
them  muffins  down,  Liza,  and  be  sure  you  have  no 
words  with  that  young  woman.  His  lot  is  cruel  hard, 
and  if  he's  crossed  he  do  swear  worse  than  any  one  I've 
ever  served.' 

'That's  a  Httle  better,'  said  Bessie,  sitting  down  to  the 
tea.     'You  needn't  wait,  thank  you,  Mrs.  Beeton.' 

'  I  had  no  intention  of  doing  such,  I  do  assure  you.' 

Bessie  made  no  answer  whatever.  This,  she  knew, 
was  the  way  in  which  real  ladies  routed  their  foes,  and 
when  one  is  a  barmaid  at  a  first-class  public-house  one 
may  become  a  real  lady  at  ten  minutes'  notice. 

Her  eyes  fell  on  Dick  opposite  her  and  she  was  both 
shocked  and  displeased.  There  were  droppings  of  food 
all  down  the  front  of  his  coat;  the  mouth  under  the  ragged 
ill-grown  beard  drooped  sullenly;  the  forehead  was  lined 
and  contracted;  and  on  the  lean  temples  the  hair  was  a 
dusty  indeterminate  colour  that  might  or  might  not  have 
been  called  gray.  The  utter  misery  and  self-abandon- 
ment of  the  man  appealed  to  her,  and  at  the  bottom  of  her 


XIV  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAH^ED  247 

heart  lay  the  wicked  feeHng  that  he  was  humbled  and 
brought  low  who  had  once  humbled  her. 

'Oh!  it  is  good  to  hear  you  moving  about,'  said  Dick, 
rubbing  his  hands.  '  Tell  us  all  about  your  bar  successes, 
Bessie,  and  the  way  you  hve  now.' 

'Never  mind  that.  I'm  quite  respectable,  as  you'd  see 
by  looking  at  me.  You  don't  seem  to  Hve  too  well. 
What  made  you  go  bhnd  that  sudden?  Why  isn't  there 
any  one  to  look  after  you? ' 

Dick  was  too  thankful  for  the  sound  of  her  voice  to 
resent  the  tone  of  it. 

'I  was  cut  across  the  head  a  long  time  ago,  and  that 
ruined  m.y  eyes.  I  don't  suppose  anybody  thinks  it  worth 
while  to  look  after  me  any  more.  Why  should  they? — 
and  Mr.  Beeton  really  does  everything  I  want.' 

'Don't  you  know  any  gentlemen  and  ladies,  then,  while 
you  was — well? ' 

'A  few,  but  I  don't  care  to  have  them  looking  at  me.' 

'  I  suppose  that's  why  you've  growed  a  beard.  Take  it 
off,  it  don't  become  you.' 

'  Good  gracious,  child,  do  you  imagine  that  I  tliink  of 
what  becomes  me  these  days?' 

'You  ought.  Get  that  taken  off  before  I  come  here 
again.     I  suppose  I  can  come,  can't  I? ' 

'I'd  be  only  too  grateful  if  you  did.  I  don't  think  I 
treated  you  very  well  in  the  old  days.  I  used  to  make 
you  angry.' 

'Very  angry,  you  did.' 

*I'm  sorry  for  it,  then.     Come  and  see  me  when  you 


248  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  chap. 

can  and  as  often  as  you  can.  God  knows,  there  isn't  a 
soul  in  the  world  to  take  that  trouble  except  you  and  Mr. 
Beeton.' 

*A  lot  of  trouble  Jie^s  taking  and  she  too.'  This  with  a 
toss  of  the  head.  '  They've  let  you  do  anyhow  and  they 
haven't  done  anything  for  you.  I've  only  to  look  to  see 
that  much.  I'll  come,  and  I'U  be  glad  to  come,  but  you 
must  go  and  be  shaved,  and  you  must  get  some  other 
clothes — those  ones  aren't  fit  to  be  seen.' 

'I  have  heaps  somewhere,'  he  said  helplessly. 

*  I  know  you  have.  Tell  Mr.  Beeton  to  give  you  a  new 
suit  and  I'll  brush  it  and  keep  it  clean.  You  may  be  as 
blind  as  a  barn-door,  Mr.  Heldar,  but  it  doesn't  excuse 
you  looking  hke  a  sweep.' 

'Do  I  look  Hke  a  sweep,  then? ' 

'Oh,  I'm  sorry  for  you.  I'm  that  sorry  for  you!'  she 
cried  impulsively,  and  took  Dick's  hands.  Mechanically, 
he  lowered  his  head  as  if  to  kiss — she  was  the  only  woman 
who  had  taken  pity  on  him,  and  he  was  not  too  proud  for  a 
Httle  pity  now.     She  stood  up  to  go. 

'Nothing  o'  that  kind  till  you  look  more  Hke  a  gentle- 
man. It's  quite  easy  when  you  get  shaved,  and  some 
clothes.' 

He  could  hear  her  drawing  on  her  gloves  and  rose  to  say 
good-bye.  She  passed  behind  him,  kissed  him  audaciously 
on  the  back  of  the  neck,  and  ran  away  as  swiftly  as  on  the 
day  when  she  had  destroyed  the  Melancolia. 

'  To  think  of  me  kissing  Mr.  Heldar,'  she  said  to  herself, 
*  after  all  he's  done  to  me  and  all !    WeU,  I'm  sorry  for  him, 


XIV  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAH^ED 


249 


and  if  he  was  shaved  he  wouldn't  be  so  bad  to  look  at,  but 
.  .  .  Oh  them  Beetons,  how  shameful  they've  treated 
him!  I  know  Beeton's  wearing  his  shirt  on  his  back  to- 
day just  as  well  as  if  I'd  aired  it.  To-morrow,  I'll  see 
.  .  .  I  wonder  if  he  has  much  of  his  own.  It  might  be 
worth  more  than  the  bar — I  wouldn't  have  to  do  any 
work- — -and  just  as  respectable  if  no  one  knew.' 

Dick  was  not  grateful  to  Bessie  for  her  parting  gift.  He 
was  acutely  conscious  of  it  in  the  nape  of  his  neck  through- 
out the  night,  but  it  seemed,  among  very  many  other 
things,  to  enforce  the  wisdom  of  getting  shaved.  He  was 
shaved  accordingly  in  the  morning,  and  felt  the  better  for 
it.  A  fresh  suit  of  clothes,  white  linen,  and  the  knowledge 
that  some  one  in  the  world  said  that  she  took  an  interest 
in  his  personal  appearance  made  him  carry  himself 
almost  upright ;  for  the  brain  was  reheved  for  a  while  from 
thinking  of  Maisie,  who,  under  other  circumstances, 
might  have  given  that  kiss  and  a  million  others. 

'Let  us  consider,'  said  he,  after  lunch.  'The  girl  can't 
care,  and  it's  a  toss-up  whether  she  comes  again  or  not, 
but  if  money  can  buy  her  to  look  after  me  she  shall  be 
bought.  Nobody  else  in  the  world  would  take  the  trouble, 
and  I  can  make  it  worth  her  while.  She's  a  child  of  the 
gutter  holding  brevet  rank  as  a  barmaid;  so  she  shall  have 
everything  she  wants  if  she'll  only  come  and  talk  and  look 
after  me.'  He  rubbed  his  newly  shorn  chin  and  began  to 
perplex  himself  with  the  thought  of  her  not  coming.  'I 
suppose  I  did  look  rather  a  sweep,'  he  went  on.  '  I  had  no 
reason  to  look  otherwise.     I  knew  things  dropped  on  my 


2SO  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  chap. 

clothes,  but  it  didn't  matter.  It  would  be  cruel  if  she 
didn't  come.  She  must.  Maisie  came  once,  and  that 
was  enough  for  her.  She  was  quite  right.  She  had  some- 
thing to  work  for.  This  creature  has  only  beer- 
handles  to  pull,  unless  she  has  deluded  some  young  man 
into  keeping  company  with  her.  Fancy  being  cheated 
for  the  sake  of  a  counter-jumper!  We're  falHng  pretty 
low.' 

Something  cried  aloud  within  him: — This  will  hurt 
more  than  anything  that  has  gone  before.  It  will  recall 
and  remind  and  suggest  and  tantalise,  and  in  the  end 
drive  you  mad. 

'I  know  it,  I  know  it!'  Dick  cried,  clenching  his  hands 
despairingly ;  '  but,  good  heavens !  is  a  poor  blind  beggar 
never  to  get  anything  out  of  his  life  except  three  meals  a 
day  and  a  greasy  waistcoat?     I  wish  she'd  come.' 

Early  in  the  afternoon  time  she  came,  because  there 
was  no  young  man  in  her  life  just  then,  and  she  thought  of 
material  advantages  which  would  allow  her  to  be  idle  for 
the  rest  of  her  days. 

'I  shouldn't  have  known  you,'  she  said  approvingly. 
'You  look  as  you  used  to  look — a  gentleman  that  was 
proud  of  himself.' 

'Don't  you  think  I  deserve  another  kiss,  then?'  said 
Dick,  flushing  a  Httle. 

'  Maybe — but  you  won't  get  it  yet.  Sit  down  and  let's 
see  what  I  can  do  for  you.  I'm  certain  sure  Mr.  Beeton 
cheats  you,  now  that  you  can't  go  through  the  house- 
keeping books  every  month.     Isn't  that  true? ' 


XIV  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  251 

'You'd  better  come  and  housekeep  for  me  then,  Bessie.' 

'Couldn't  do  it  in  these  chambers — you  know  that  as 
well  as  I  do.' 

'I  know,  bat  we  might  go  somewhere  else,  if  you 
thought  it  worth  your  whUe.' 

'I'd  try  to  look  after  you,  anyhow;  but  I  shouldn't  care 
to  have  to  work  for  both  of  us.'     This  was  tentative. 

Dick  laughed. 

'  Do  you  remember  where  I  used  to  keep  my  bank-book?' 
said  he.  'Torp  took  it  to  be  balanced  just  before  he 
went  away.     Look  and  see.' 

'  It  was  generally  under  the  tobacco-jar.     Ah ! ' 

'Well?' 

'  Oh !  Four  thousand  two  hundred  and  ten  pounds  nine 
shillings  and  a  penny !     Oh  my ! ' 

'You  can  have  the  penny.  That's  not  bad  for  one 
year's  work.  Is  that  and  a  hundred  and  twenty  pounds  a 
year  good  enough? ' 

The  idleness  and  the  pretty  clothes  were  almost  within 
her  reach  now,  but  she  must,  by  being  housewifely,  show 
that  she  deserved  them. 

'Yes;  but  you'd  have  to  move,  and  if  we  took  an  in- 
ventory, I  think  we'd  find  that  Mr.  Beeton  has  been 
prigging  little  things  out  of  the  rooms  here  and  there. 
They  don't  look  as  full  as  they  used.' 

'Never  mind,  we'll  let  liim  have  them.  The  only  thing 
I'm  particularly  anxious  to  take  away  is  that  picture  I 
used  you  for — when  you  used  to  swear  at  me.  We'll  pull 
out  of  this  place,  Bess,  and  get  away  as  far  as  ever  we  can.' 


252  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  chap. 

'Oh  yes,'  she  said  uneasily. 

*I  don't  know  where  I  can  go  to  get  away  from  myself, 
but  I'll  try,  and  you  shall  have  all  the  pretty  frocks  that 
you  care  for.  You'll  like  that.  Give  me  that  kiss  now, 
Bess.  Ye  gods!  it's  good  to  put  one's  arm  round  a 
woman's  waist  again.' 

Then  came  the  fulfilment  of  the  prophecy  within  the 
brain.  If  his  arm  were  thus  round  Maisie's  waist  and  a 
kiss  had  just  been  given  and  taken  between  them, — why 
then  .  .  .  He  pressed  the  girl  more  closely  to  him- 
self because  the  pain  whipped  him.  She  was  wondering 
how  to  explain  a  httle  accident  to  the  Melancolia.  At 
any  rate,  if  this  man  really  desired  the  solace  of  her  com- 
pany— and  certainly  he  would  relapse  into  his  original 
slough  if  she  withdrew  it — he  would  not  be  more  than  just 
a  Uttle  vexed.  It  would  be  deHghtf  ul  at  least  to  see  what 
would  happen,  and  by  her  teachings  it  was  good  for  a  man 
to  stand  in  certain  awe  of  his  comipanion. 

She  laughed  nervously,  and  slipped  out  of  his  reach. 

'I  shouldn't  worrit  about  that  picture  if  I  v/as  you,'  she 
began,  in  the  hope  of  turning  his  attention. 

'  It's  at  the  back  of  all  my  canvases  somewhere.  Find 
it,  Bess;  you  know  it  as  well  as  I  do.' 

'  I  know — but ' 

'But  what?  You've  wit  enough  to  manage  the  sale  of 
it  to  a  dealer.  Women  haggle  much  better  than  men.  It 
might  be  a  matter  of  eight  or  nine  hundred  pounds  to — to 
us.  I  simply  didn't  like  to  think  about  it  for  a  long  time. 
It  was  mixed  up  with  my  life  so. — But  we'll  cover  up  our 


XIV  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  253 

tracks  and  get  rid  of  everything,  eh?  Make  a  fresh  start 
from  the  beginning,  Bess.' 

Then  she  began  to  repent  very  much  indeed,  because 
she  knew  the  value  of  money.  Still,  it  was  probable  that 
the  bhnd  man  was  overestimating  the  value  of  his  work. 
Gentlemen,  she  knew,  were  absurdly  particular  about  their 
things.  She  giggled  as  a  nervous  housemaid  giggles  when 
she  tries  to  explain  the  breakage  of  a  pipe. 

'  I'm  very  sorry,  but  you  remember  I  was — I  was  angry 
with  you  before  Mr.  Torpenhow  went  away? ' 

'You  were  very  angry,  child;  and  on  my  word  I  think 
you  had  some  right  to  be.' 

'  Then  I — but  aren't  you  sure  Mr.  Torpenhow  didn't  tell 
you?' 

'Tell  me  what?  Good  gracious,  what  are  you  making 
such  a  fuss  about  when  you  might  just  as  well  be  giving 
me  another  kiss? ' 

He  was  beginning  to  learn,  not  for  the  first  time  in  his 
experience,  that  kissing  is  a  cumulative  poison.  The  more 
you  get  of  it,  the  m.ore  you  want.  Bessie  gave  the  kiss 
promptly,  whispering,  as  she  did  so,  'I  was  so  angry  I 
rubbed  out  that  picture  with  the  turpentine.  You  aren't 
angry,  are  you? ' 

'What?  Say  that  again.'  The  man's  hand  had  closed 
on  her  wrist. 

'I  rubbed  it  out  with  turps  and  the  knife,'  faltered 
Bessie.  'I  thought  you'd  only  have  to  do  it  over  again. 
You  did  do  it  over  again,  didn't  you?  Oh,  let  go  of  my 
wrist;  you're  hurting  me.' 


254  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  chap, 

'Isn't  there  anything  left  of  the  thing? ' 

'N'nothing  that  looks  lil^e  anything.  I'm  sorry — I 
didn't  know  you'd  take  on  about  it;  I  only  meant  to  do  it 
in  fun.     You  aren't  going  to  hit  me? ' 

'Hit  you!     No!     Let's  think.' 

He  did  not  relax  his  hold  upon  her  wrist  but  stood  star- 
ing at  the  carpet.  Then  he  shook  his  head  as  a  young 
steer  shakes  it  when  the  lash  of  the  stock-whip  across  his 
nose  warns  liim  back  to  the  path  to  the  shambles  that  he 
would  escape.  For  weeks  he  had  forced  himself  not  to 
think  of  the  Melancolia,  because  she  was  a  part  of  his 
dead  life.  With  Bessie's  return  and  certain  new  pr6s- 
pects  that  had  developed  themselves,  the  Melancolia — 
lovelier  in  his  imagination  than  she  had  ever  been  on  can- 
vas— reappeared.  By  her  aid  he  might  have  procured 
more  money  wherewith  to  amuse  Bess  and  to  forget 
Maisie,  as  well  as  another  taste  of  an  almost  forgotten 
success.  Now,  thanks  to  a  vicious  little  housemaid's 
folly,  there  was  nothing  to  look  for — not  even  the  hope 
that  he  might  some  day  take  an  abiding  interest  in  the 
housemaid.  Vv^orst  of  all,  he  had  been  made  to  appear 
ridiculous  in  Maisie's  eyes.  A  woman  will  forgive  the 
man  who  has  ruined  her  life's  work  so  long  as  he  gives 
her  love:  a  man  may  forgive  those  who  ruin  the  love 
of  his  hfe,  but  he  will  never  forgive  the  destruction  of 
his  work. 

'Tck — tck — tck,'  said  Dick  between  his  teeth,  and 
then  laughed  softly.  'It's  an  omen,  Bessie,  and — a  good 
many  things  considered,  it  serves  me  right  for  doing  what 


XIV  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  255 

I  have  done.  By  Jove!  that  accounts  for  Maisie's  run- 
ning away.  She  must  have  thought  me  perfectly  mad 
— small  blame  to  her!  The  whole  picture  ruined,  isn't 
it  so?     What  made  you  do  it? ' 

'Because  I  was  that  angry.  I'm  not  angry  now — I'm 
awful  sorry.' 

'  I  wonder. — It  doesn't  m.atter,  anyhow.  I'm  to  blame 
for  making  the  mistake.' 

'What  mistake?' 

'Something  you  wouldn't  understand,  dear.  Great 
heavens!  to  think  that  a  Uttle  piece  of  dirt  Hke  you  could 
throw  me  out  of  m}^  stride  I '  Dick  was  talking  to  himseK 
as  Bessie  tried  to  shake  off  his  grip  on  her  wrist. 

'  I  ain't  a  piece  of  dirt,  and  you  shouldn't  call  me  so  I  I 
did  it  'cause  I  hated  you,  and  I'm  only  sorry  now  'cause 
you're— 'cause  you're ' 

'Exactly — because  I'm  bhnd.  There's  notb'ng  like 
tact  in  Uttle  things.' 

Bessie  began  to  sob.  She  did  not  like  being  shackled 
against  her  will;  she  was  afraid  of  the  blind  face  and  the 
look  upon  it,  and  was  sorry  too  that  her  great  revenge  had 
only  made  Dick  laugh. 

'Don't  cry,'  he  said,  and  took  her  into  his  arms.  'You 
only  did  what  you  thought  right.' 

'  I — I  ain't  a  httle  piece  of  dirt,  and  if  you  say  that  I'll 
never  come  to  you  again.' 

'You  don't  know  what  you've  done  to  me.  I'm  not 
angry — indeed,  I'm  not.     Be  quiet  for  a  minute.' 

Bessie  remained  in  his  arms  shrinking.     Dick's  first 


2S6  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  chap. 

thought  was  connected  with  Maisie,  and  it  hurt  him  as 
white-hot  iron  hurts  an  open  sore. 

Not  for  notliing  is  a  man  permitted  to  ally  hiriiself  to 
the  wrong  woman.  The  first  pang — the  first  sense  of 
things  lost  is  but  the  prelude  to  the  play,  for  the  very  just 
Providence  who  delights  in  causing  pain  has  decreed  that 
the  agony  shall  return,  and  that  in  the  midst  of  keenest 
pleasure.  They  know  this  pain  equally  who  have  for- 
saken or  been  forsaken  by  the  love  of  their  Hfe,  and  in 
their  new  wives'  arms  are  compelled  to  reahse  it.  It  is 
better  to  remain  alone  and  suffer  only  the  misery  of  being 
alone,  so  long  as  it  is  possible  to  find  distraction  in  daily 
work.  When  that  resource  goes  the  man  is  to  be  pitied 
and  left  alone. 

These  things  and  some  others  Dick  considered  while  he 
was  holding  Bessie  to  his  heart. 

'Though  you  mayn't  know  it,'  he  said,  raising  his  head, 
'the  Lord  is  a  just  and  a  terrible  God,  Bess;  with  a  very 
strong  sense  of  humour.  It  serves  me  right — how  it 
serves  me  right!  Torp  could  understand  it  if  he  were 
here;  he  must  have  suffered  something  at  your  hands, 
child,  but  only  for  a  minute  or  so.  I  saved  him.  Set 
that  to  my  credit,  some  one,' 

'Let  me  go,'  said  Bess,  her  face  darkening.     'Let  me 

go.; 

'All  in  good  time.  Did  you  ever  attend  Sunday 
school?' 

'Never.  Let  me  go,  I  tell  you;  you're  making  fun 
of  me.' 


XIV  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  257 

*  Indeed,  I'm  not.  I'm  making  fun  of  myself .  .  .  . 
Thus.  "He  saved  others,  himself  he  cannot  save."  It 
isn't  exactly  a  school-board  text.'  He  released  her  wrist, 
but  since  he  was  between  her  and  the  door,  she  could  not 
escape.  'What  an  enormous  amount  of  miscliief  one 
httle  woman  can  do! ' 

'  I'm  sorry ;  I'm  awfully  sorry  about  the  picture.' 

'  I'm  not.  I'm  grateful  to  you  for  spoiHng  it.  .  .  . 
What  were  we  talking  about  before  you  mentioned  the 
thing? ' 

'About  getting  away — and  money.  Me  and  you  go- 
ing away.' 

'Of  course.     We  will  get  away — that  is  to  say,  I  wiU.' 

'And  me?' 

'You  shall  have  fifty  whole  pounds  for  spoiHng  a 
picture.' 

'Then  you  v/on't ? ' 

'  I'm  afraid  not,  dear.  Thinlc  of  fifty  pounds  for  pretty 
things  all  to  yourself.' 

'You  said  you  couldn't  do  anything  without  me.' 

'That  was  true  a  Httle  while  ago.  I'm  better  now, 
thank  you.     Get  me  my  hat.' 

'  S'pose  I  don't?  ' 

'  Beeton  will,  and  you'U  lose  fifty  pounds.  That's 
all.     Get  it.' 

Bessie  cursed  under  her  breath.  She  had  pitied  the 
man  sincerely,  had  kissed  him  with  almost  equal  sincerity, 
for  he  was  not  unhandsome;  it  pleased  her  to  be  in  a  way 
and  for  a  time  his  protector,  and  above  all  there  were  four 


258  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  chap. 

thousand  pounds  to  be  handled  by  some  one.  Now 
through  a  sHp  of  the  tongue  and  a  Httle  feminine  desire  to 
give  a  Httle,  not  too  much,  pain  she  had  lost  the  money, 
the  blessed  idleness  and  the  pretty  things,  the  companion- 
ship, and  the  chance  of  looking  outwardly  as  respectable 
as  a  real  lady. 

'Now  fill  me  a  pipe.  Tobacco  doesn't  taste,  but  it 
doesn't  matter,  and  I'll  think  things  out.  What's  the  day 
of  the  week,  Bess? ' 

'Tuesday.' 

'Then  Thursday's  mail-day.  What  a  fool— what  a 
bhnd  fool  I  have  been!  Twenty- two  pounds  covers  my 
passage  home  again.  Allow  ten  for  additional  expenses. 
We  must  put  up  at  Madame  Binat's  for  old  sake's  sake. 
Thirty-two  pounds  altogether.  Add  a  hundred  for  the 
cost  of  the  last  trip — Gad,  won't  Torp  stare  to  see  me! — a 
hundred  and  thirty-two  leaves  seventy-eight  for  bak- 
sheesh— I  shall  need  it — and  to  play  with.  WTiat  are  you 
crying  for,  Bess?  It  wasn't  your  fault,  child;  it  was  mine 
altogether.  Oh,  you  funny  little  opossum,  mop  your 
eyes  and  take  me  out!  I  want  the  pass-book  and  the 
check-book.  Stop  a  minute.  Four  thousand  pounds  at 
four  per  cent — that's  safe  interest — mxcans  a  hundred  and 
sixty  pounds  a  year;  one  hundred  and  twenty  pounds 
a  year — also  safe — is  two  eighty,  and  two  hundred  and 
eighty  pounds  added  to  three  hundred  a  year  means 
gilded  luxury  for  a  single  woman.  Bess,  we'll  go  to  the 
bank.' 

Richer  by  two  hundred  and  ten  pounds  stored  in  his 


XIV  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FMLED  259 

money-belt,  Dick  caused  Bessie,  now  thoroughly  be- 
v/ildered,  to  hurry  from  the  bank  to  the  P.  and  O.  offices, 
where  he  explained  things  tersely. 

'Port  Said,  single  first;  cabin  as  close  to  the  baggage- 
hatch  as  possible.     What  sliip's  going? ' 

'The  Colgong,'  said  the  clerk. 

'She's  a  wet  Httle  hooker.  Is  it  Tilbury  and  a  tender, 
or  Galleons  and  the  docks? ' 

'  Galleons.     Twelve-forty,  Thursday.' 

'Thanks.  Change,  please.  I  can't  see  very  well — 
will  you  count  it  into  my  hand? ' 

'  If  they  all  took  their  passages  like  that  instead  of  talk- 
ing about  their  trunks,  Hfe  would  be  worth  something,' 
said  the  clerk  to  his  neighbour,  who  was  trying  to  explain 
to  a  harassed  mother  of  many  that  condensed  milk  is  just 
as  good  for  babes  at  sea  as  daily  dairy.  Being  nine- 
teen and  unmarried,  he  spoke  with  conviction. 

'We  are  now,'  quoth  Dick,  as  they  returned  to  the 
studio,  patting  the  place  where  his  money-belt  covered 
ticket  and  money,  'beyond  the  reach  of  man,  or  devil,  or 
woman — which  is  much  more  important.  I've  three  Httle 
affairs  to  carry  through  before  Thursday,  but  I  needn't 
ask  you  to  help,  Bess.  Come  here  on  Thursday  morning 
at  nine.  We'll  breakfast,  and  you  shall  take  me  down  to 
Galleons  Station.' 

'What  are  you  going  to  do?' 

'  Going  away,  of  course.     What  should  I  stay  for? ' 

'But  you  can't  look  after  yourself? ' 

'I  can  do  anything.     I  didn't  reahse  it  before,  but  I 


26o  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED 


CHAP. 


can.  I've  done  a  great  deal  already.  Resolution  shall 
be  treated  to  one  kiss  if  Bessie  doesn't  object.'  Strangely 
enough,  Bessie  objected  and  Dick  laughed.  'I  suppose 
you're  right.  Well,  come  at  nine  the  day  after  to- 
morrow and  you'll  get  your  money.' 

'Shall  I  sure?' 

'I  don't  bilk,  and  you  won't  know  whether  I  do  or  not 
unless  you  come.  Oh,  but  it's  long  and  long  to  wait! 
Good-bye,  Bessie, — send  Beeton  here  as  you  go  out.' 

The  housekeeper  came. 

'What  are  all  the  fittings  of  my  rooms  worth?'  said 
Dick,  imperiously. 

'  'Tisn't  for  me  to  say,  sir.  Some  things  is  ver}^  pretty 
and  some  is  wore  out  dreadful.' 

'  I'm  insured  for  two  hundred  and  seventy.' 

'Insurance  poUcies  is  no  criterion,  though  I  don'f 
say ' 

'Oh,  damn  your  longv.ondedness !  You've  made  your 
pickings  out  of  me  and  the  other  tenants.  Why,  you 
talked  of  retiring  and  bu}dng  a  public-house  the  other 
day.    Give  a  straight  answer  to  a  straight  question.' 

'Fifty,'  said  Mr.  Beeton,  without  a  moment's  hesita- 
tion. 

'Double  it;  or  I'll  break  up  half  my  sticks  and  burn  the 
rest.' 

He  felt  his  way  to  a  bookstand  that  supported  a  pile 
of  sketch-books,  and  wrenched  out  one  of  the  mahogany 
pillars. 

'That's  sinful,  sir,'  said  the  housekeeper,  alarmed. 


XIV                         THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  261 

'  It's  my  own.     One  hundred  or ' 


'One  hundred  it  is.  It'll  cost  me  three  and  six  to  get 
that  there  pilaster  mended.' 

'I  thought  so.  What  an  out  and  out  swindler  you 
must  have  been  to  spring  that  price  at  once ! ' 

'I  hope  I've  done  nothing  to  dissatisfy  any  of  the 
tenants,  least  of  all  you,  sir.' 

'Never  mind  that.  Get  me  the  money  to-morrow,  and 
see  that  all  my  clothes  are  packed  in  the  Kttle  brown 
bullock-trunk.     I'm  going.' 

'But  the  quarter's  notice?' 

'  I'U  pay  forfeit.  Look  after  the  packing  and  leave  me 
alone.' 

Mr.  Beeton  discussed  this  new  departure  with  his  wife, 
who  decided  that  Bessie  was  at  the  bottom  of  it  aU.  Her 
husband  took  a  more  charitable  view. 

'It's  very  sudden — but  then  he  was  always  sudden  in 
his  ways.     Listen  to  him  now ! ' 

There  was  a  sound  of  chanting  from  Dick's  room. 

'  We'll  never  come  back  any  more,  boys, 
We'll  never  come  back  no  more; 
We'll  go  to  the  deuce  on  any  excuse. 
And  never  come  back  no  more ! 
Oh  say  we're  afloat  or  ashore,  boys, 
Oh  say  we're  afloat  or  ashore; 
But  we'll  never  come  back  any  more,  boys, 
We'll  never  come  back  no  more ! 

'Mr.  Beeton!  Mr.  Beeton!  Where  the  deuce  is  my 
pistol?' 


262  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  chap- 

'Quick,  he's  going  to  shoot  himself — 'avin'  gone  mad!' 
said  Mrs.  Beeton. 

Mr.  Beeton  addressed  Dick  soothingly,  but  it  was  some 
time  before  the  latter,  threshing  up  and  down  his  bed- 
room, could  realise  the  intention  of  the  promises  to  'find, 
everything  to-morrow,  sir.' 

'Oh,  you  copper-nosed  old  fool — you  impotent  Aca- 
demician ! '  he  shouted  at  last.  '  Do  you  suppose  I  want 
to  shoot  myself?  Take  the  pistol  in  your  silly  shaking 
hand  then.  If  you  touch  it,  it  will  go  off,  because  it's 
loaded.  It's  among  my  campaign-kit  somewhere — in  the 
parcel  at  the  bottom  of  the  trunk.' 

Long  ago  Dick  had  carefully  possessed  himself  of  a 
forty-pound  weight  field-equipment  constructed  by  the 
knowledge  of  his  own  experience.  It  was  this  put-away 
treasure  that  he  was  trying  to  find  and  rehandle.  Mr. 
Beeton  v/liipped  the  revolver  out  of  its  place  on  the  top  of 
the  package,  and  Dick  drove  his  hand  among  the  khaki 
coat  and  breeches,  the  blue  cloth  leg-bands,  and  the 
heavy  flannel  shirts  doubled  over  a  pair  of  swan-neck 
spurs.  Under  these  and  the  water-bottle  lay  a  sketch- 
book and  a  pigsldn  case  of  stationery. 

'These  we  don't  want;  you  can  have  them,  Mr.  Beeton. 
Everything  else  I'll  keep.  Pack  'em  on  the  top  right- 
hand  side  of  my  trunk.  When  you've  done  that  come 
into  the  studio  with  your  wife.  I  want  you  both.  Wait 
a  minute ;  get  me  a  pen  and  a  sheet  of  notepaper.' 

It  is  not  an  easy  thing  to  write  when  you  cannot  see, 
and  Dick  had  particular  reasons  for  wishing  that  his  work 


xrv  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FARMED  263 

should  be  clear.  So  he  began,  following  his  right  hand 
with  his  left:  '"The  badness  of  this  writing  is  because 
I  am  bhnd  and  cannot  see  my  pen."  H'mph! — even  a 
lawyer  can't  mistake  that.  It  must  be  signed,  I  suppose, 
but  it  needn't  be  witnessed.  Now  an  inch  lower — why 
did  I  never  learn  to  use  a  type- writer?- — "This  is  the  last 
will  and  testament  of  me,  Richard  Heldar.  I  am  in 
sound  bodily  and  mental  health,  and  there  is  no  previous 
will  to  revoke." — That's  all  right.  Damn  the  pen! 
Whereabouts  on  the  paper  was  I? — "I  leave  everything 
that  I  possess  in  the  world,  including  four  thousand 
pounds,  and  two  thousand  seven  hundred  and  twenty- 
eight  pounds  held  for  mxc" — oh,  I  can't  get  this  straight.' 
He  tore  off  half  the  sheet  and  began  again  with  the 
caution  about  the  handwriting.  Then:  ' I  leave  all  the 
money  I  possess  in  the  world  to ' — here  followed  Maisie's 
name,  and  the  names  of  the  two  banks  that  held  his 
money. 

'It  mayn't  be  quite  regular,  but  no  one  has  a  shadow  of 
a  right  to  dispute  it,  and  I've  given  Maisie's  address. 
Come  in,  Mr.  Beeton.  This  is  my  signature;  you've  seen 
it  often  enough  to  know  it;  I  want  you  and  your  wife  to 
witness  it.  Thanks.  To-morrow  you  must  take  me  to 
the  landlord  and  I'll  pay  forfeit  for  leaving  without 
notice,  and  I'll  lodge  this  paper  with  him  in  case  anything 
happens  when  I'm  away.  Now  we're  going  to  Hght  up 
the  studio  stove.  Stay  with  me,  and  give  me  my  papers 
as  I  want  'em.' 

No  one  knows  until  he  has  tried  how  jQne  a  blaze  a 


264  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  chap,  xiv 

year's  accumulation  of  bills,  letters,  and  dockets  can 
make.  Dick  stuffed  into  the  stove  every  document  in  the 
studio — saving  only  three  unopened  letters:  destroyed 
sketch-books,  rough  note-books,  new  and  half-finished 
canvases  alike. 

'What  a  lot  of  rubbish  a  tenant  gets  about  him  if  he 
stays  long  enough  in  one  place,  to  be  sure,'  said  Mr.  Bee- 
ton,  at  last. 

'He  does.  Is  there  anything  more  left?'  Dick  felt 
round  the  walls. 

'Not  a  thing,  and  the  stove's  nigh  red-hot.' 

'Excellent,  and  you've  lost  about  a  thousand  pounds' 
worth  of  sketches.  Ho!  ho!  Quite  a  thousand  pounds' 
worth,  if  I  can  remember  what  I  used  to  be.' 

'Yes,  sir,'  politely.  Mr.  Beeton  was  quite  sure  that 
Dick  had  gone  mad,  otherwise  he  would  have  never 
parted  with  his  excellent  furniture  for  a  song.  The  canvas 
things  took  up  storage  room  and  were  much  better  out  of 
the  way. 

There  remained  only  to  leave  the  little  will  in  safe 
hands:  that  could  not  be  accompKshed  till  to-morrow. 
Dick  groped  about  the  floor  picking  up  the  last  pieces  of 
paper,  assured  himself  again  and  again  that  there  re- 
mained no  written  word  or  sign  of  his  past  Hfe  in  drawer 
or  desk,  and  sat  down  before  the  stove  till  the  fire  died  out 
and  the  contracting  iron  cracked  in  the  silence  of  the 
night. 


CHAPTER    XV 

With  a  heart  of  furious  fancies, 

Whereof  I  am  commander; 
With  a  burning  spear  and  a  horse  of  air, 

To  the  wilderness  I  wander. 
With  a  knight  of  ghosts  and  shadows 

I  summoned  am  to  tourney — 
Ten  leagues  beyond  the  wide  world's  end, 

Methinks  it  is  no  journey. 

— Tom  a  ^Bedlam's  Song. 

'Good-bye,  Bess;  I  promised  you  fifty.  Here's  a 
hundred— all  that  I  got  for  my  furniture  from  Beeton. 
That  will  keep  you  in  pretty  frocks  for  some  time.  You've 
been  a  good  little  girl,  all  things  considered,  but  you've 
given  me  and  Torpenhow  a  fair  amount  of  trouble.' 

*  Give  Mr.Torpenhow  my  love  if  you  see  him,  won't  you? ' 

'Of  course  I  will,  dear.  Now  take  me  up  the  gang- 
plank and  into  the  cabin.  Once  aboard  the  lugger  and 
the  maid  is — and  I  am  free,  I  mean.' 

'Who'll  look  after  you  on  the  ship? ' 

'The  head-steward,  if  there's  any  use  in  money.  The 
doctor  when  we  come  to  Port  Said,  if  I  know  anything 
of  P.  and  O.  doctors.  After  that,  the  Lord  will  provide, 
as  He  used  to  do.' 

26s 


266  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAH^ED  chap. 

Bess  found  Dick  his  cabin  in  the  world  turmoil  of  a 
ship  full  of  leavetakers  and  weeping  relatives.  Then  he 
kissed  her,  and  laid  himself  down  in  his  bunk  until  the 
decks  should  be  clear.  He  who  had  taken  so  long  to  move 
about  his  own  darkened  rooms  well  understood  the  geog- 
raphy of  a  ship,  and  the  necessity  of  seeing  to  his  own 
comforts  was  as  wine  to  him.  Before  the  screw  began  to 
thrash  the  ship  along  the  Docks  he  had  been  introduced  to 
the  head-steward,  had  royally  tipped  him,  secured  a  good 
place  at  table,  opened  out  his  baggage,  and  settled  himself 
down  with  joy  in  the  cabin.  It  was  scarcely  necessary  to 
feel  his  way  as  he  moved  about,  for  he  knew  everything  so 
well.  Then  God  was  very  kind :  a  deep  sleep  of  weariness 
came  upon  him  just  as  he  would  have  thought  of  Maisie, 
and  he  slept  till  the  steamer  had  cleared  the  mouth  of  the 
Thames  and  was  lifting  to  the  pulse  of  the  Channel. 

The  rattle  of  the  engines,  the  reek  of  oil  and  paint,  and 
a  very  familiar  sound  in  the  next  cabin  roused  him  to  his 
new  inheritance. 

*  Oh,  it's  good  to  be  aUve  again ! '  He  yawned,  stretched 
himself  vigorously,  and  went  on  deck  to  be  told  that  they 
were  almost  abreast  of  the  Hghts  of  Brighton.  This  is  no 
more  open  water  than  Trafalgar  Square  is  a  common; 
the  free  levels  begin  at  Ushant ;  but  none  the  less  Dick 
could  feel  the  healing  of  the  sea  at  work  upon  him  al- 
ready. A  boisterous  httle  cross-swell  swung  the  steamer 
disrespectfully  by  the  nose ;  and  one  wave  breaking  far  aft 
spattered  the  quarterdeck  and  the  pile  of  new  deck- 
chairs.     He  heard  the  foam  fall  with  the  clash  of  broken 


XV  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  267 

glass,  was  stung  in  the  face  by  a  cupful,  and  sniSing 
luxuriously,  felt  his  way  to  the  smoking-room  by  the 
wheel.  There  a  strong  breeze  found  him,  blew  his  cap  off 
and  left  him  bareheaded  m  the  doorway,  and  the  smok- 
ing-room steward,  understanding  that  he  was  a  voyager 
of  experience,  said  that  the  weather  would  be  stiff  in  the 
chops  off  the  Channel  and  more  than  half  a  gale  in  the 
Bay.  These  things  feU  as  they  were  foretold,  and  Dick 
enjoyed  himself  to  the  utmost.  It  is  allowable  and  even 
necessary  at  sea  to  lay  firm  hold  upon  tables,  stanchions, 
and  ropes  in  moving  from  place  to  place.  On  land  the 
man  who  feels  with  his  hands  is  patently  blind.  At  sea 
even  a  bHnd  man  who  is  not  sea-sick  can  jest  with  the 
doctor  over  the  weakness  of  his  fellows.  Dick  told  the 
doctor  many  tales — and  these  are  coin  of  more  value  than 
silver  if  properly  handled — smoked  with  him  till  unholy 
hours  of  the  night,  and  so  won  his  short-lived  regard  that 
he  promised  Dick  a  few  hours  of  his  time  when  they  came 
to  Port  Said. 

And  the  sea  roared  or  was  still  as  the  winds  blew,  and 
the  engines  sang  their  song  day  and  night,  and  the  sun 
grew  stronger  day  by  day,  and  Tom  the  Lascar  barber 
shaved  Dick  of  a  morning  under  the  opened  hatch-grating 
where  the  cool  winds  blew,  and  the  awnings  were  spread 
and  the  passengers  made  merry,  and  at  last  they  came  to 
Port  Said. 

'Take  me,'  said  Dick,  to  the  doctor,  'to  Madame 
Binat's — if  you  know  where  that  is.' 

'Whew!'  said  the  doctor,  'I  do.     There's  not  much  to 


268  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  chap. 

choose  between  'em;  but  I  suppose  you're  aware  that 
that's  one  of  the  worst  houses  in  the  place.  They'll  rob 
you  to  begin  with,  and  knife  you  later.' 

'Not  they.  Take  me  there,  and  I  can  look  after  my- 
seH.' 

So  he  was  brought  to  Madame  Binat's  and  filled  his 
nostrils  with  the  well-remembered  smell  of  the  East,  that 
runs  without  a  change  from  the  Canal  head  to  Hong- 
Kong,  and  his  mouth  with  the  villanous  Lingua  Franca 
of  the  Levant.  The  heat  smote  him  between  the  shoulder- 
blades  with  the  buffet  of  an  old  friend,  his  feet  slipped  on 
the  sand,  and  his  coat-sleeve  was  warm  as  new-baked 
bread  when  he  lifted  it  to  his  nose. 

Madame  Binat  smiled  with  the  smile  that  knows  no 
astonishment  when  Dick  entered  the  drinking-shop  which 
was  one  source  of  her  gains.  But  for  a  little  accident  of 
complete  darkness  he  could  hardly  realise  that  he  had 
ever  quitted  the  old  life  that  hummed  in  his  ears.  Some- 
body opened  a  bottle  of  peculiarly  strong  Schiedam.  The 
smell  reminded  Dick  of  Monsieur  Binat,  who,  by  the  way, 
had  spoken  of  art  and  degradation.  Binat  was  dead; 
Madame  said  as  much  when  the  doctor  departed, 
scandalised,  so  far  as  a  ship's  doctor  can  be,  at  the  warmth 
of  Dick's  reception.  Dick  was  delighted  at  it.  'They 
remember  me  here  after  a  year.  They  have  forgotten  me 
across  the  water  by  this  time.  Madame,  I  want  a  long 
talk  with  you  when  you're  at  liberty.  It  is  good  to  be 
back  again.' 

In  the  evening  she  set  an  iron-topped  cafe-table  out  on 


XV  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  269 

the  sands,  and  Dick  and  she  sat  by  it,  while  the  house  be- 
hind them  filled  with  riot,  merriment,  oaths,  and  threats. 
The  stars  came  out  and  the  lights  of  the  shipping  in  the 
harbour  twinkled  by  the  head  of  the  Canal. 

'Yes.  The  war  is  good  for  trade,  my  friend;  but  what 
dost  thou  do  here?     We  have  not  forgotten  thee.' 

'  I  was  over  there  in  England  and  I  went  blind.' 

'But  there  was  the  glory  first.  We  heard  of  it  here, 
even  here — I  and  Binat;  and  thou  hast  used  the  head  of 
Yellow  'Tina — she  is  still  alive— so  often  and  so  well  that 
'Tina  laughed  when  the  papers  arrived  by  the  mail-boats. 
It  was  always  something  that  we  here  could  recognise  in 
the  paintings.  And  then  there  was  always  the  glory  and 
the  money  for  thee.' 

'  I  am  not  poor — I  shall  pay  you  well.' 

'Not  to  me.  Thou  hast  paid  for  everything.'  Under 
her  breath,  'Mon  Dieu,  to  be  blind  and  so  young!  What 
horror ! ' 

Dick  could  not  see  her  face  with  the  pity  on  it,  or  his 
own  with  the  discoloured  hair  at  the  temples.  He  did  not 
feel  the  need  of  pity;  he  was  too  anxioas  to  get  to  the  front 
once  more,  and  explained  his  desire. 

'And  where?  The  Canal  is  full  of  the  English  ships. 
Sometimes  they  fire  as  they  used  to  do  when  the  war  was 
here — ten  years  ago.  Beyond  Cairo  there  is  fighting,  but 
how  canst  thou  go  there  without  a  correspondent's  pass- 
port? And  in  the  desert  there  is  always  fighting,  but  that 
is  impossible  also,'  said  she. 

'I  must  go  to  Suakin.'     He  knew,  thanks  to  Alf's  read- 


270  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  chap, 

ings,  that  Torpenhow  was  at  work  with  the  column  that 
was  protecting  the  construction  of  the  Suakin-Berber  line. 
P.  and  0.  steamers  do  not  touch  at  that  port,  and,  besides, 
Madame  Binat  knew  everybody  whose  help  or  advice  was 
worth  anything.  They  were  not  respectable  folk,  but 
they  could  cause  things  to  be  accomplished,  which  is  much 
more  important  when  there  is  work  toward, 

'  But  at  Suakin  they  are  always  fighting.  That  desert 
breeds  men  always — and  always  more  men.  And  they 
are  so  bold!    Why  at  Suakin?  ' 

'My  friend  is  there.' 

'Thy  friend!     Chtt!     Thy  friend  is  death,  then.' 

Madame  Binat  dropped  a  fat  arm  on  the  table-top, 
filled  Dick's  glass  anew,  and  looked  at  him  closely  under 
the  stars.  There  was  no  need  that  he  should  bow  his 
head  in  assent  and  say — 

'No.  He  is  a  man,  but — if  it  should  arrive  .  .  . 
blamest  thou?' 

'I  blame?'  she  laughed  shrilly,  'Who  am  I  that  I 
should  blame  any  one— except  those  who  try  to  cheat  me 
over  their  consommations.     But  it  is  very  terrible.' 

'I  must  go  to  Sualdn.  Think  for  me.  A  great  deal 
has  changed  within  the  year,  and  the  men  I  knew  are 
not  here.  The  Egyptian  lighthouse  steamer  goes  down 
the  Canal  to  Suakin — and  the  post-boats — But  even 
then——' 

'Do  not  think  any  longer.  /  know,  and  it  is  for  me  to 
think.  Thou  shalt  go— thou  shalt  go  and  see  thy  friend. 
Be  wise.     Sit  here  until  the  house  is  a  Httle  quiet — I  must 


XV  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAH^ED  271 

attend  to  my  guests — and  afterwards  go  to  bed.  Thou 
shalt  go,  in  truth,  thou  shalt  go.' 

*  To-morrow?' 

'As  soon  as  may  be.'  She  was  talking  as  though  he 
were  a  child. 

He  sat  at  the  table  Kstening  to  the  voices  in  the  harbour 
and  the  streets,  and  wondering  how  soon  the  end  would 
come,  till  Madame  Binat  carried  him  off  to  bed  and 
ordered  him  to  sleep.  The  house  shouted  and  sang  and 
danced  and  revelled,  Madame  Binat  mo\'ing  through  it 
with  one  eye  on  the  liquor  payments  and  the  girls  and  the 
other  on  Dick's  interests.  To  this  latter  end  she  smiled 
upon  scowHng  and  furtive  Turkish  officers  of  fellaheen 
regiments,  w^as  gracious  to  Cypriote  commissariat  under- 
lings, and  more  than  kind  to  camel  agents  of  no  nation- 
ality whatever. 

In  the  early  morning,  being  then  appropriately  dressed 
in  a  flaming  red  silk  ball-dress,  with  a  front  of  tarnished 
gold  embroidery  and  a  necklace  of  plate-glass  diamonds, 
she  made  chocolate  and  carried  it  in  to  Dick. 

'  It  is  only  I,  and  I  am  of  discreet  age,  eh?  Drink  and 
eat  the  roll  too.  Thus  in  France  mothers  bring  their 
sons,  v/hen  those  behave  wisely,  the  morning  chocolate.' 
She  sat  down  on  the  side  of  the  bed  whispering : — 

*It  is  all  arranged.  Thou  mlt  go  by  the  lighthouse 
boat.  That  is  a  bribe  of  ten  pounds  English.  The  cap- 
tain is  never  paid  by  the  Government.  The  boat  comes 
to  Suakin  in  four  days.  There  will  go  with  thee  George,  a 
Greek  m.uleteer.     Another  bribe  of  ten  pounds.     I  will 


272  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAH^ED  chap. 

pay;  they  must  not  know  of  thy  money.  George  will  go 
with  thee  as  far  as  he  goes  with  his  mules.  Then  he  comes 
back  to  me,  for  his  weU-beloved  is  here,  and  if  I  do  not  re- 
ceive a  telegram  from  Suakin  saying  that  thou  art  well, 
the  girl  answers  for  George.' 

'Thank  you.'  He  reached  out  sleepily  for  the  cup. 
'You  are  much  too  kind,  Madame.' 

'If  there  were  anything  that  I  might  do  I  would  say, 
stay  here  and  be  wise;  but  I  do  not  think  that  would  be 
best  for  thee.'  She  looked  at  her  hquor-stained  dress 
with  a  sad  smile.  'Nay,  thou  shalt  go,  in  truth,  thou 
shalt  go.     It  is  best  so.     My  boy,  it  is  best  so.' 

She  stooped  and  kissed  Dick  between  the  eyes.  'That 
is  for  good-morning,'  she  said,  going  away.  'When  thou 
art  dressed  we  will  speak  to  George  and  make  everything 
ready.  B  ut  first  we  must  open  the  Uttle  trunk.  Give  me 
the  keys.' 

'  The  amount  of  kissing  lately  has  been  simply  scanda- 
lous. I  shall  expect  Torp  to  kiss  me  next.  He  is  more 
likely  to  swear  at  me  for  getting  in  his  way,  though.  Well, 
it  won't  last  long. — Ohe,  Madame,  help  me  to  my  toilette 
of  the  guillotine!  There  will  be  no  chance  of  dressing 
properly  out  yonder.' 

He  was  rummaging  among  his  new  campaign-kit,  and 
rowelKng  his  hands  with  the  spurs.  There  are  two  ways 
of  wearing  well-oiled  ankle-jacks,  spotless  blue  leg-bands, 
khaki  coat  and  breeches,  and  a  perfectly  pipeclayed  helmet. 
The  right  way  is  the  way  of  the  untired  man,  master 
of  himself,  setting  out  upon  an  expedition,  well  pleased. 


XV  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAH^ED  273 

'Everything  must  be  very  correct/  Dick  explained. 
'  It  will  become  dirty  afterwards,  but  now  it  is  good  to  feel 
well  dressed.     Is  everything  as  it  should  be? ' 

He  patted  the  revolver  neatly  hidden  under  the  fulness 
of  the  blouse  on  the  right  hip  and  fingered  his  collar. 

'I  can  do  no  more/  Madame  said,  between  laughing 
and  crying.     ' Look  at  thyself — but  I  forgot.' 

'I  am  very  content.'  He  stroked  the  creaseless  spirals 
of  his  leggings.  'Now  let  us  go  and  see  the  captain  and 
George  and  the  lighthouse  boat.     Be  quick,  Madame.' 

'But  thou  canst  not  be  seen  by  the  harbour  walking 
with  me  in  the  daylight.  Figure  to  yourself  if  some  Eng- 
lish ladies ' 

'There  are  no  English  ladies;  and  if  there  are,  I  have 
forgotten  them.     Take  me  there.' 

In  spite  of  his  burning  impatience  it  was  nearly  evening 
ere  the  Hghthouse  boat  began  to  move.  Madame  had 
said  a  great  deal  both  to  George  and  the  captain  touching 
the  arrangem.ents  that  were  to  be  made  for  Dick's  benefit. 
Very  few  men  who  had  the  honour  of  her  acquaintance 
cared  to  disregard  Madame's  advice.  That  sort  of  con- 
tempt might  end  in  being  knifed  by  a  stranger  in  a  gam- 
bling hell  upon  surprisingly  short  provocation. 

For  sLx  days — two  of  them  were  wasted  in  the  crowded 
Canal — the  little  steamer  worked  her  way  to  Suakin, 
where  she  was  to  pick  up  the  superintendent  of  light- 
houses; and  Dick  made  it  his  business  to  propitiate 
George,  who  was  distracted  v/ith  fears  for  the  safety  of  his 
light-of-love  and  half  inclined  to  make  Dick  responsible 


274  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  chap. 

for  his  own  discomfort.  When  they  arrived  George  took 
him  under  his  wing,  and  together  they  entered  the  red-hot 
seaport,  encumbered  with  the  material  and  wastage  of  the 
Suakin-Berber  Hne,  from  locomotives  in  disconsolate 
fragments  to  mounds  of  chairs  and  pot-sleepers. 

'If  you  keep  with  me,'  said  George,  'nobody  will  ask 
for  passports  or  what  you  do.     They  are  all  very  busy.' 

'Yes;  but  I  should  like  to  hear  some  of  the  Enghshmen 
talk.  They  might  remember  me.  I  was  known  here  a 
long  time  ago — when  I  was  some  one  indeed.' 

'A  long  time  ago  is  a  very  long  time  ago  here.  The 
graveyards  are  full.  Now  listen.  This  nev/  railway  runs 
out  so  far  as  Tanai-el-Hassan — that  is  seven  miles.  Then 
there  is  a  camp.  They  say  that  beyond  Tanai-el-Hassan 
the  Enghsh  troops  go  forward,  and  everything  that  they 
require  will  be  brought  to  them  by  this  Hne.' 

'Ah!  Base  camp.  I  see.  That's  a  better  business 
than  fighting  the  Fuzzies  in  the  open.' 

'For  this  reason  even  the  mules  go  up  in  the  iron-train.' 

'Iron  what?' 

'It  is  all  covered  with  iron,  because  it  is  still  being 
shot  at.' 

'An  armoured  train.  Better  and  better!  Go  on,  faith- 
ful George.' 

'  And  I  go  up  with  my  mules  to-night.  Only  those  who 
particularly  require  to  go  to  the  camp  go  out  with  the 
train.     They  begin  to  shoot  not  far  from  the  city.' 

'  The  dears — they  always  used  to ! '  Dick  snuffed  the 
smell  of  parched  dust,  heated  iron,  and  flaking  paint  with 


XV  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  275 

delight.     Certainly  the  old  Kfe  was  welcoming  him  back 
most  generously. 

'  When  I  have  got  my  mules  together  I  go  up  to-night, 
but  you  must  first  send  a  telegram  to  Port  Said  declaring 
that  I  have  done  you  no  harm.' 

'Madame  has  you  well  in  hand.  Would  you  stick  a 
knife  into  me  if  you  had  the  chance? ' 

'I  have  no  chance,'  said  the  Greek.  'She  is  there  with 
that  woman.' 

'I  see.  It's  a  bad  thing  to  be  divided  between  love  of 
woman  and  the  chance  of  loot.  I  sympatliise  with  you, 
George.' 

They  went  to  the  telegraph-office  unquestioned,  for  all 
the  world  was  desperately  busy  and  had  scarcely  time  to 
turn  its  head,  and  Suakin  v/as  the  last  place  under  sky 
that  would  be  chosen  for  hohday-ground.  On  their 
return  the  voice  of  an  EngUsh  subaltern  asked  Dick  what 
he  was  doing.  The  blue  goggles  were  over  his  eyes  and  he 
walked  with  his  hand  on  George's  elbow  as  he  rephed — 

'Egyptian  Government — mules.  IMy  orders  are  to 
give  them  over  to  the  A.  C.  G.  at  Tanai-el-Hassan.  Any 
occasion  to  show  my  papers? ' 

'Oh,  certainly  not.  I  beg  j'-our  pardon.  I'd  no  right 
to  ask,  but  not  seeing  your  face  before  I ' 

'I  go  out  in  the  train  to-night,  I  suppose,'  said  Dick, 
boldly.  'There  will  be  no  difficulty  in  loading  up  the 
mules,  will  there? ' 

'You  can  see  the  horse-platforms  from  here.  You 
must  have  them  loaded  up  early.'     The  young  man  went 


276  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  chap. 

away  wondering  what  sort  of  broken-down  waif  this 
might  be  who  talked  Kke  a  gentleman  and  consorted  with 
Greek  muleteers.  Dick  felt  unhappy.  To  outface  an 
Enghsh  officer  is  no  small  thing,  but  the  bluff  loses  relish 
when  one  plays  it  from  the  utter  dark,  and  stumbles  up 
and  down  rough  ways,  thinking  and  eternally  thinking  of 
what  might  have  been  if  things  had  fallen  out  otherwise, 
and  all  had  been  as  it  was  not. 

George  shared  his  meal  with  Dick  and  went  oflf  to  the 
mule-lines.  His  charge  sat  alone  in  a  shed  with  his  face 
in  his  hands.  Before  his  tight-shut  eyes  danced  the  face 
of  Maisie,  laugliing,  with  parted  Hps.  There  was  a  great 
bustle  and  clamour  about  him.  He  grew  afraid  and 
almost  called  for  George. 

'I  say,  have  you  got  your  mules  ready?'  It  was  the 
voice  of  the  subaltern  over  his  shoulder. 

'  My  man's  looking  after  them.  The — the  fact  is  I've  a 
touch  of  ophthalmia  and  I  can't  see  very  well.' 

'By  Jove!  that's  bad.  You  ought  to  He  up  in  hospital 
for  a  while.  I've  had  a  turn  of  it  myself.  It's  as  bad  as 
being  bUnd.' 

'  So  I  find  it.     When  does  tliis  armoured  train  go? ' 

'At  six  o'clock.  It  takes  an  hour  to  cover  the  seven 
miles.' 

'Are  the  Fuzzies  on  the  rampage — eh? ' 

'About  three  nights  a  week.  Fact  is  I'm  in  acting 
command  of  the  night-train.  It  generally  runs  back 
empty  to  Tanai  for  the  night.' 

'  B  ig  camp  at  Tanai  ,Isuppose?'  ^ 


XV  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAH.ED 


277 


'Pretty  big.  It  has  to  feed  our  desert-column  some- 
how.' 

'Is  that  far  off?' 

'Between  thirty  and  forty  miles — in  an  infernal  thirsty 
country.' 

'  Is  the  country  quiet  between  Tanai  and  our  men? ' 

'More  or  less.  I  shouldn't  care  to  cross  it  alone,  or 
with  a  subaltern's  command  for  the  matter  of  that,  but 
the  scouts  get  through  in  some  extraordinary  fashion.' 

'They  always  did.' 

'Have  you  been  here  before,  then? ' 

*I  was  through  most  of  the  trouble  when  it  first  broke 
out.' 

'In  the  service  and  cashiered,'  was  the  subaltern's  first 
thought,  so  he  refrained  from  putting  any  questions. 

'There's  your  man  coming  up  with  the  mules.  It 
seems  rather  queer ' 

'That  I  should  be  mule-leading? '  said  Dick. 

'I  didn't  mean  to  say  so,  but  it  is.  Forgive  me — it's 
beastly  impertinence  I  know,  but  you  speak  like  a  man 
who  has  been  at  a  pubhc  school.  There's  no  mistaking 
the  tone.' 

'I  am  a  public  school  man.' 

'  I  thought  so.  I  say,  I  don't  want  to  hurt  your  feehngs, 
but  you're  a  httle  down  on  your  luck,  aren't  you?  I  saw 
you  sitting  with  your  head  in  your  hands,  and  that's  why 
I  spoke.' 

'Thanks.  I  am  about  as  thoroughly  and  completely 
broke  as  a  man  need  be.' 


278  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  chap. 

'Suppose — I  mean  I'm  a  public  school  man  myself. 
Couldn't  I  perhaps — take  it  as  a  loan  y'know  and ' 

'You're  much  too  good,  but  on  my  honour  I've  as 
much  money  as  I  want.  ...  I  tell  you  v/hat  you 
could  do  for  me,  though,  and  put  me  under  an  everlasting 
obligation.  Let  me  come  into  the  bogie  truck  of  the 
train.     There  is  a  fore-truck,  isn't  there? ' 

*  Yes .     How  d  'you  know  ? ' 

'I've  been  in  an  armoured  train  before.  Only  let  me 
see — hear  some  of  the  fun  I  m.ean,  and  I'll  be  grateful.  I 
go  at  my  own  risk  as  a  non-combatant.' 

The  young  man  thought  for  a  minute.  'All  right,'  he 
said.  'We're  supposed  to  be  an  empty  train,  and  there's 
no  one  to  blow  me  up  at  the  other  end.' 

George  and  a  horde  of  yelKng  amateur  assistants  had 
loaded  up  the  mules,  and  the  narrow-gauge  armoured 
train,  plated  with  three-eighths  inch  boiler-plate  till  it 
looked  like  one  long  coffin,  stood  ready  to  start. 

Two  bogie  trucks  running  before  the  locomotive  were 
completely  covered  in  with  plating,  except  that  the  lead- 
ing one  was  pierced  in  front  for  the  nozzle  of  a  machine- 
gun,  and  the  second  at  either  side  for  lateral  fire.  The 
trucks  together  made  one  long  iron-vaulted  chamber  in 
which  a  score  of  artillerymen  were  rioting. 

'Whitechapel — last  train!  Ah,  I  see  yer  kissin'  in  the 
first  class  there!'  somebody  shouted,  just  as  Dick  was 
clambering  into  the  forward  truck. 

'Lordy!  'Ere's  a  real  live  passenger  for  the  Kew, 
Tanai,  Acton,   and   EaUn'   train.     Echo,   sir.     Speshul 


XV  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAH-ED  279 

edition!  Star,  sir.' — 'Shall  I  get  you  a  foot-warmer?' 
said  another. 

'  Thanks.  I'll  pay  my  footing/  said  Dick,  and  relations 
of  the  most  amicable  were  established  ere  silence  came 
with  the  arrival  of  the  subaltern,  and  the  train  jolted  out 
over  the  rough  track. 

'  This  is  an  immense  improvement  on  shooting  the  un- 
impressionable Fuzzy  in  the  open,'  said  Dick,  from  his 
place  in  the  corner. 

'Oh,  but  he's  still  unimpressed.  There  he  goes!'  said 
the  subaltern,  as  a  bullet  struck  the  outside  of  the  truck. 
*  We  always  have  at  least  one  demonstration  against  the 
m'ght-train.  Generally  they  attack  the  rear-truck,  where 
my  junior  commands.     He  gets  all  the  fun  of  the  fair.' 

'  Not  to-night  though !  Listen ! '  said  Dick.  A  fhght  of 
heavy-handed  bullets  was  succeeded  by  yelhng  and 
shouts.  The  children  of  the  desert  valued  their  nightly 
amusem.ent,  and  the  train  was  an  excellent  mark. 

'Is  it  worth  while  giving  them  half  a  hopper  full? '  the 
subaltern  asked  of  the  engine,  which  was  driven  by  a 
Lieutenant  Sappers. 

'  I  should  just  think  so !  This  is  my  section  of  the  Hne. 
They'll  be  playing  old  Harry  with  my  permanent  way  if 
we  don't  stop  'em.' 

'Right  O!' 

'Errmphr  said  the  machine-gun  through  all  its  five 
noses  as  the  subaltern  drew  the  lever  home.  The  empty 
cartridges  clashed  on  the  floor  and  the  smoke  blew  back 
through  the  truck.     There  was  indiscriminate  firing  at 


28o  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAH^ED  chap. 

the  rear  of  the  train,  and  return  fire  from  the  darkness 
without  and  unlimited  howling.  Dick  stretched  liimself 
on  the  floor,  wild  with  dehght  at  the  sounds  and  the 
smells. 

*  God  is  very  good — I  never  thought  I'd  hear  this  again. 
Give  'em  hell,  men.     Oh,  give  'em  hell ! '  he  cried. 

The  train  stopped  for  some  obstruction  on  the  line 
ahead  and  a  party  went  out  to  reconnoitre,  but  cam.e  back 
cursing,  for  spades.  The  children  of  the  desert  had  piled 
sand  and  gravel  on  the  rails,  and  twenty  minutes  were 
lost  in  clearing  it  away.  Then  the  slow  progress  recom- 
menced, to  be  varied  with  more  shots,  more  shoutings,  the 
steady  clack  and  kick  of  the  machine-guns,  and  a  final 
difficulty  with  a  half-lifted  rail  ere  the  train  came  under 
the  protection  of  the  roaring  camp  at  Tanai-el-Hassan. 

'Now,  you  see  why  it  takes  an  hour  and  a  half  to  fetch 
her  through,'  said  the  subaltern,  unshipping  the  cartridge- 
hopper  above  his  pet  gun. 

'  It  was  a  lark,  though.  I  only  wish  it  had  lasted  twice 
as  long.  How  superb  it  must  have  looked  from  outside ! ' 
said  Dick,  sighing  regretfully. 

'It  palls  after  the  first  few  nights.  By  the  way,  when 
you've  settled  about  your  mules,  come  and  see  what  we 
can  find  to  eat  in  my  tent.  I'm  Bennil  of  the  Gunners — 
in  the  artillery  fines — and  mind  you  don't  fall  overmy 
tent-ropes  in  the  dark.' 

But  it  was  aU  dark  to  Dick.  He  could  only  smell  the 
camels,  the  hay-bales,  the  cooking,  the  smoky  fires,  and 
the  tanned  canvas  of  the  tents  as  he  stood,  where  he  had 


XV  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  281 

dropped  from  the  train,  shouting  for  George.  There  was 
a  sound  of  light-hearted  kicking  on  the  iron  skin  of  the 
rear  trucks,  with  squealing  and  grunting.  George  was 
unloading  the  mules. 

The  engine  was  blowing  off  steam  nearly  in  Dick's  ear; 
a  cold  wind  of  the  desert  danced  between  his  legs ;  he  was 
hungry,  and  felt  tired  and  dirty — so  dirty  that  he  tried  to 
brush  his  coat  mth  his  hands.  That  was  a  hopeless  job ; 
he  thrust  his  hands  into  his  pockets  and  began  to  count 
over  the  many  times  that  he  had  v/aited  in  strange  or  re- 
mote places  for  trains  or  camels,  mules  or  horses,  to  carry 
liim  to  his  business.  In  those  days  he  could  see — few 
men  more  clearly— and  the  spectacle  of  an  armed  camp  at 
dinner  under  the  stars  was  an  ever  fresh  pleasure  to  the 
eye.  There  was  colour,  hght,  and  motion,  without  which 
no  man  has  much  pleasure  in  living.  This  night  there  re- 
mained for  him  only  one  more  journey  through  the  dark- 
ness that  never  lifts  to  tell  a  man  how  far  he  has  travelled. 
Then  he  would  grip  Torpenhow's  hand  again — Torpen- 
how,  who  was  alive  and  strong,  and  lived  in  the  midst  of 
the  action  that  had  once  made  the  reputation  of  a  man 
called  Dick  Heldar:  not  in  the  least  to  be  confused  with 
the  blind,  bewildered  vagabond  who  seemed  to  answer  to 
the  same  name.  Yes,  he  would  find  Torpenhow,  and 
come  as  near  to  the  old  life  as  might  be.  Afterwards  he 
would  forget  everything:  Bessie,  who  had  wrecked  the 
Melancolia  and  so  nearly  wrecked  his  life;  Beeton,  who 
lived  in  a  strange  unreal  city  full  of  tin-tacks  and  gas- 
plugs  and  matters  that  no  men  needed;  that  irrational  be- 


282  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  chap. 

ing  who  had  offered  him  love  and  loyalty  for  nothing,  but 
had  not  signed  her  name;  and  most  of  all  Maisie,  who, 
from  her  own  point  of  \aew,  was  undeniably  right  in  all 
she  did,  but  oh,  at  this  distance,  so  tantalisingly  fair. 

George's  hand  on  his  arm  pulled  him  back  to  the 
situation. 

'And  what  now? '  said  George. 

'Oh  yes,  of  course.  What  now?  Take  me  to  the 
camel-men.  Take  me  to  where  the  scouts  sit  when  they 
come  in  from  the  desert.  They  sit  by  their  camels,  and 
the  camels  eat  grain  out  of  a  black  blanket  held  up  at  the 
corners,  and  the  men  eat  by  their  side  just  like  camels. 
Take  me  there!' 

The  camp  was  rough  and  rutty,  and  Dick  stumbled 
many  times  over  the  stumps  of  scrub.  The  scouts  were 
sitting  by  their  beasts,  as  Dick  knew  they  would.  The 
light  of  the  dung-fires  flickered  on  their  bearded  faces,  and 
the  camels  bubbled  and  mumbled  beside  them  at  rest. 
It  was  no  part  of  Dick's  poHcy  to  go  into  the  desert  with  a 
convoy  of  supplies.  That  would  lead  to  impertinent 
questions,  and  since  a  bUnd  non-combatant  is  not  needed 
at  the  front,  he  would  probably  be  forced  to  return  to 
Suakin.    He  must  go  up  alone ,  and  go  immediately. 

'Now  for  one  last  bluff— the  biggest  of  all,'  he  said. 
*  Peace  be  with  you,  brethren!'  The  watchful  George 
steered  him  to  the  circle  of  the  nearest  lire.  The  heads  of 
the  camel-sheiks  bowed  gravely,  and  the  camels,  scenting 
a  European,  looked  sideways  curiously  like  brooding  hens, 
half  ready  to  get  to  their  feet. 


XV  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  283 

'A  beast  and  a  driver  to  go  to  the  fighting  line  to-night,' 
said  Dick. 

'A  Mulaid?'  said  a  voice,  scornfully  naming  the  best 
baggage-breed  that  he  knew. 

'A  Bisharin,'  returned  Dick,  with  perfect  gravity.  'A 
Bisharin  without  saddle-galls.  Therefore  no  charge  of 
thine,  shock-head.' 

Two  or  three  minutes  passed.     Then — 

*  We  be  knee-haltered  for  the  night.  There  is  no  going 
out  from  the  camp.' 

'Not  for  money?' 

'H'm!    Ah!     English  money? ' 

Another  depressing  interval  of  silence. 

'How  much?' 

'Twenty-five  pounds  English  paid  into  the  hand  of  the 
driver  at  my  journey's  end,  and  as  much  more  into  the 
hand  of  the  camel-sheik  here,  to  be  paid  when  the  driver 
returns.' 

This  was  royal  payment,  and  the  sheik,  who  knew  that 
he  would  get  his  commission  on  the  deposit,  stirred  in 
Dick's  behalf. 

'  For  scarcely  one  night's  journey — fifty  pounds.  Land 
and  wells  and  good  trees  and  wives  to  make  a  man  con- 
tent for  the  rest  of  his  days.     Who  speaks?'  said  Dick. 

'  I, '  said  a  voice.  '  I  will  go — but  there  is  no  going  from 
the  camp.' 

'  Fool !  I  know  that  a  camel  can  break  his  knee-halter, 
and  the  sentries  do  not  fire  if  one  goes  in  chase.  Twenty- 
five  pounds  and  another  twenty-five  pounds.     But  the 


284  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FMLED  chap. 

beast  must  be  a  good  Bisharin;  I  will  take  no  baggage- 
camel.' 

Then  the  bargaining  began,  and  at  the  end  of  half  an 
hour  the  first  deposit  was  paid  over  to  the  sheik,  who 
talked  in  low  tones  to  the  driver.  Dick  heard  the  latter 
say:  *  A  little  way  out  only.  Any  baggage-beast  will  serve. 
Am  I  a  fool  to  waste  my  cattle  for  a  blincf  man? ' 

'And  though  I  cannot  see' — Dick  lifted  his  voice  a  little 
— *  yet  I  carry  that  which  has  six  eyes,  and  the  driver  vAll 
sit  before  me.  If  we  do  not  reach  the  English  troops  in 
the  dawn  he  will  be  dead.' 

'But  where,  in  God's  name,  are  the  troops?' 

'  Unless  thou  knowest  let  another  man  ride.  Dost  thou 
know?     Remember  it  will  be  Hfe  or  death  to  thee.' 

'I  know,'  said  the  driver,  sullenly.  'Stand  back  from 
my  beast.     I  am  going  to  slip  him . ' 

'Not  so  swiftly.  George,  hold  the  camel's  head  a 
moment.  I  want  to  feel  his  cheek.'  The  hands  wandered 
over  the  hide  till  they  found  the  branded  half-circle  that 
is  the  mark  of  the  Bisharin,  the  light-built  riding-camel. 
'That  is  well.  Cut  this  one  loose.  Remember  no  bless- 
ing of  God  comes  on  those  who  try  to  cheat  the  bhnd.' 

The  men  chuckled  by  the  fires  at  the  camel-driver's  dis- 
comfiture. He  had  intended  to  substitute  a  slow,  saddle- 
galled  baggage-colt. 

'Stand  back!'  one  shouted,  lashing  the  Bisharin  under 
the  belly  with  a  quirt.  Dick  obeyed  as  soon  as  he  felt  the 
nose-ring  tighten  in  his  hand, — and  a  cry  went  up, '  Illaha! 
Aho!    He  is  loose.' 


XV  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  285 

With  a  roar  and  a  grunt  the  Bisharin  rose  to  his  feet  and 
plunged  forward  towards  the  desert,  his  driver  following 
with  shouts  and  lamentation.  George  caught  Dick's  arm 
and  hurried  him  stumbling  and  tripping  past  a  disgusted 
sentry  who  was  used  to  stampeding  camels. 

'What's  the  row  now? '  he  cried. 

'Every  stitch  of  my  kit  on  that  blasted  drome- 
dary,' Dick  answered,  after  the  manner  of  a  common 
soldier. 

'  Go  on,  and  take  care  your  throat's  not  cut  outside — 
you  and  your  dromedary's.' 

The  outcries  ceased  when  the  camel  had  disappeared 
behind  a  hillock,  and  his  driver  had  called  him  back  and 
made  him  kneel  down. 

'Mount  first,'  said  Dick.  Then  climbing  into  the 
second  seat  and  gently  screwing  the  pistol  muzzle  into  the 
small  of  his  companion's  back,  '  Go  on  in  God's  name, 
and  swiftly.  Good-bye,  George.  Remember  me  to 
Madame,  and  have  a  good  time  with  your  girl.  Get 
forward,  child  of  the  Pit!' 

A  few  minutes  later  he  was  shut  up  in  a  great  silence, 
hardly  broken  by  the  creaking  of  the  saddle  and  the  soft 
pad  of  the  tireless  feet.  Dick  adjusted  himself  comfort- 
ably to  the  rock  and  pitch  of  the  pace,  girthed  his  belt 
tighter,  and  felt  the  darkness  shde  past.  For  an  hour  he 
was  conscious  only  of  the  sense  of  rapid  progress. 

'A  good  camel,'  he  said  at  last. 

'  He  has  never  been  underfed.  He  is  my  own  and  clean 
bred,'  the  driver  repUed. 


286  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  chap. 

'Goon.' 

His  head  dropped  on  his  chest  and  he  tried  to  think,  but 
the  tenor  of  his  thoughts  was  broken  because  he  was  very 
sleepy.  In  the  half  doze  it  seemed  that  he  was  learning  a 
punishment  hymn  at  Mrs.  Jennett's.  He  had  committed 
some  crime  as  bad  as  Sabbath-breaking,  and  she  had 
locked  him  up  in  his  bedroom.  But  he  could  never  repeat 
more  than  the  first  two  lines  of  the  hymn — 

When  Israel  of  the  Lord  beloved 
Out  of  the  land  of  bondage  came. 

He  said  them  over  and  over  thousands  of  times.  The 
driver  turned  in  the  saddle  to  see  if  there  were  any  chance 
of  capturing  the  revolver  and  ending  the  ride.  Dick 
roused,  struck  him  over  the  head  with  the  butt,  and 
stormed  himself  wide  awake.  Somebody  hidden  in  a 
clump  of  camel- thorn  shouted  as  the  camel  toiled  up  rising 
ground.  A  shot  was  fired,  and  the  silence  shut  down 
again,  bringing  the  desire  to  sleep.  Dick  could  think  no 
longer.  He  was  too  tired  and  stiff  and  cramped  to  do 
more  than  nod  uneasily  from  time  to  time,  waking  with  a 
start  and  punching  the  driver  with  the  pistol. 
'  Is  there  a  moon? '  he  asked  drowsily. 

*  She  is  near  her  setting.' 

*  I  wish  that  I  could  see  her.  Halt  the  camel.  At  least 
let  me  hear  the  desert  talk.' 

The  man  obeyed.  Out  of  the  utter  stillness  came  one 
breath  of  wind.  It  rattled  the  dead  leaves  of  a  shrub  some 
distance  away  and  ceased.     A  handful  of  dry  earth  de- 


XV  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  287 

tached  itself  from  the  edge  of  a  rain  trench  and  crumbled 
softly  to  the  bottom. 

'  Go  on.     The  night  is  very  cold.' 

Those  who  have  watched  till  the  morning  know  how  the 
last  hour  before  the  Hght  lengthens  itself  into  many 
eternities.  It  seemed  to  Dick  that  he  had  never  since  the 
beginning  of  original  darkness  done  anything  at  all  save 
jolt  through  the  air.  Once  in  a  thousand  years  he  would 
finger  the  nail-heads  on  the  saddle-front  and  count  them 
all  carefully.  Centuries  later  he  would  shift  his  revolver 
from  his  right  hand  to  his  left  and  allow  the  eased  arm 
to  drop  down  at  his  side.  From  the  safe  distance  of 
London  he  was  watching  himself  thus  employed, — 
watching  critically.  Yet  whenever  he  put  out  his  hand  to 
the  canvas  that  he  might  paint  the  tawny  yellow  desert 
under  the  glare  of  the  sinking  moon,  the  black  shadow  of 
the  camel  and  the  two  bowed  figures  atop,  that  hand  held 
a  revolver  and  the  arm  was  numbed  from  wrist  to  collar- 
bone. Moreover,  he  was  in  the  dark,  and  could  see  no 
canvas  of  any  kind  whatever. 

The  driver  grunted,  and  Dick  was  conscious  of  a 
change  in  the  air. 

'I  smell  the  dawn,'  he  whispered. 

*  It  is  here,  and  yonder  are  the  troops.  Have  I  done  well  ? ' 
The  camel  stretched  out  its  neck  and  roared  as  there 

came  down  wind  the  pungent  reek  of  camels  in  square. 

*  Go  on.     We  must  get  there  swiftly.     Go  on.' 
'They  are  moving  in  their  camp.     There  is  so  much 

dust  that  I  cannot  see  what  they  do.' 


288  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FMLED  chap. 

*  Am  I  in  better  case?     Go  forward.' 

They  could  hear  the  hum  of  voices  ahead,  the  howling 
and  the  bubbUng  of  the  beasts  and  the  hoarse  cries  of 
the  soldiers  girthing  up  for  the  day.  Two  or  three  shots 
were  fired. 

'  Is  that  at  us?  Surely  they  can  see  that  I  am  English,' 
Dick  spoke  angrily. 

*Nay,  it  is  from  the  desert,'  the  driver  answered, 
cowering  in  his  saddle.  *  Go  forward,  my  child!  Well  it 
is  that  the  dawn  did  not  uncover  us  an  hour  ago.' 

The  camel  headed  straight  for  the  column  and  the 
shots  behind  multiplied.  The  children  of  the  desert  had 
arranged  that  most  uncomfortable  of  surprises,  a  dawn 
attack  for  the  Enghsh  troops,  and  were  getting  their 
distance  by  snap-shots  at  the  only  moving  object  without 
the  square. 

'What  luck!  What  stupendous  and  imperial  luck!' 
said  Dick.  'It's  "just  before  the  battle,  mother."  Oh, 
God  has  been  most  good  to  me !  Only' — the  agony  of  the 
thought  made  him  screw  up  his  eyes  for  an  instant — 
'Maisie     .     .     .' 

'  Allahu !  We  are  in,'  said  the  man,  as  he  drove  into  the 
rearguard  and  the  camel  knelt. 

'Who  the  deuce  are  you?  Despatches  or  what? 
What's  the  strength  of  the  enemy  behind  that  ridge? 
How  did  you  get  through? '  asked  a  dozen  voices.  For  all 
answer  Dick  took  a  long  breath,  unbuckled  his  belt,  and 
shouted  from  the  saddle  at  the  top  of  a  wearied  and  dusty 
voice, '  Torpenhow !     Ohe,  Torp !     Coo-ee,  Tor-pen-how. ' 


XV  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED  289 

A  bearded  man  raking  in  the  ashes  of  a  fire  for  a  b'ght  to 
his  pipe  moved  very  swiftly  towards  that  cry,  as  the  rear- 
guard, facing  about,  began  to  fire  at  the  puffs  of  smoke 
from  the  hillocks  around.  Gradually  the  scattered  white 
cloudlets  drew  out  into  long  lines  of  banked  white  that 
hung  heavily  in  the  stillness  of  the  dawn  before  they 
turned  over  wave-hke  and  glided  into  the  valleys.  The 
soldiers  in  the  square  were  coughing  and  swearing  as 
their  own  smoke  obstructed  their  view,  and  they  edged 
forward  to  get  beyond  it.  A  wounded  camel  leaped  to  its 
feet  and  roared  aloud,  the  cry  ending  in  a  bubbHng  grunt. 
Some  one  had  cut  its  throat  to  prevent  confusion.  Then 
came  the  thick  sob  of  a  man  receiving  his  death-wound 
from  a  bullet ;  then  a  yell  of  agony  and  redoubled  firing. 

There  was  no  time  to  ask  questions. 

*  Get  down,  man !     Get  down  behind  the  camel ! ' 

'No.  Put  me,  I  pray,  in  the  forefront  of  the  battle.' 
Dick  turned  his  face  to  Torpenhow  and  raised  his  hand  to 
set  his  helmet  straight,  but,  miscalculating  the  distance, 
knocked  it  off.  Torpenhow  saw  that  his  hair  was  gray  on 
the  temples,  and  that  his  face  was  the  face  of  an  old  man. 

'  Come  down,  you  damned  fool !     Dickie,  come  off ! ' 

And  Dick  came  obediently,  but  as  a  tree  falls,  pitching 
sideways  from  the  Bisharin's  saddle  at  Torpenhow's  feet. 
His  luck  had  held  to  the  last,  even  to  the  crowning  mercy 
of  a  kindly  bullet  through  his  head. 

Torpenhow  knelt  under  the  lee  of  the  camel,  with 
Dick's  body  in  his  arms. 

THE  END 


THE  COUNTRY  LIFE  PRESS 
GARDEN  CITY,  N.  Y. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 

This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


«EG'0  LO-UWi 


M/\R^ 


1974 


.-.;■.>- 


i\ 


wlJO  1381 


1  SEP21l9ffi: 

AUG  '-i  8  1982 


REC'D  LDURC, 

SEP  1 1  —^^ 


NOV  2  0  1985 


CiRC.  DEPT.  Uat 


Form  L9-Series  4939 


918 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


AA    000  378  264    6 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 

This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


KEG'O  LD-URt 


MARd     '97^ 


-?,■,'.»: 


^0:*-m^- 


on 


0  «« 

27  tSj^^ 


NOV2  0J985 


REITDf  tO-m 

AUG  ^^  «  1982 


ID 


REC'D  LD-URC, 

SEP  1 1 198? 


"'-'■?«.' 


CIRC.  DEPT.  U.IL 


# 


Form  L9-Series  4939 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


/ 


AA    000  378  264    6 


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